"Man, what are you about? Put out that fire!"
"Ah! Stand near—not too close. Now, look at that black sand."
Billings's mouth shut hard.
"In that sand, Commodore, there is power enough pent up to blow your marines to atoms, if I drop this tiny piece of flame. You and I—well, Commodore Billings, it is not necessary to consider ourselves."
Mendoza held the taper between thumb and forefinger. Two paces distant, across the aperture in the floor, the Commodore stood, his hand resting on a pistol which he did not draw.
"Shoot, Señor Billings," Mendoza said quietly, still holding the taper over the powder.
Billings's hand dropped from the pistol to his side.
"Then, cry aloud for help, my señor."
"Mendoza, what are you about?" hoarsely asked the Commodore. "What do you want?"
"That you leave Monterey."