The sea-breeze lifted from the castle the thick, black smoke-cloud. The gunners, begrimed and eager, held by their pieces.
Farquharson, white with suppressed rage, paced the battlement.
The consuls were gathered in knots of twos and threes.
Barcelo, grim and aloof, stood with folded arms and watched the departing fleet until the last speck dropped from sight.
On the way home, an hour later, Señora Valentino volunteered to the Colonel: "Well, the British ships have come—and gone."
"Yes—and I am still comandante," bluster reasserting itself. Then, to his wife: "That peon valet laid out my new uniform all right, but he gave me my old sword belt. There's simply no depending on the fellow."
CHAPTER XXV
BROWN TAKES A HAND AT DIPLOMACY
"The consummate sentimental bookworm! He hasn't gumption enough to manage a hedge school." Farquharson threw himself into a chair and crossed his legs, knocking over another chair in the process. It was in the house of the English consul.
"I haven't caught breath after the pandemonium this morning," returned the consul. "I'm glad to be back here alive."