"If I do not take Monterey, what then?"
"Then comes England," replied Mendoza, his voice low and even, "and at the present—the present, mind you, I say—an apparent majority of our people would welcome her coming. If she comes, she will stay." He looked steadily at the other. "Señor the Commodore, it may be now or never for the Americans."
There was a rush of feet in the corridor, a clatter of excited native voices, angry expostulations, and then there burst into the room a figure which startled the grave assemblage nearly out of its senses. A man naked to the waist, his feet cut and bleeding, his face streaked with dust and perspiration. He was scarcely able to stand.
"Dios!" exclaimed Mendoza. "It's Señor Zelaya. What has happened?"
The perspiring, fainting man partially steadied himself. "The English fleet sailed—this morning—at daybreak—toward the south—decks cleared for action——" He collapsed and would have fallen had not Mendoza caught him.
Zelaya soon recovered. Quickly he told his story.
"By thunder! The English fleet stripped for battle! Hurrying to Monterey! I'll shoot their infernal rudders off!" cried the Commodore.
Hamilton, unsheathing his sword, bounded to the side of his superior.
Billings's blade gave answering flash.
Excited voices hushed under the swish of steel.