“In that case, general,” pleaded the middy, “let these men go. I am an officer, and came here on my own responsibility. They were merely obeying orders. You cannot hold them responsible.”
“You are all equally guilty in my eyes,” was the short reply.
“But,” broke out Stark desperately, “you don’t understand. You can’t. This mission of ours here has nothing to do with our government. It’s just a lark—a stupid one, I admit, but a joke nevertheless.”
“I beg to differ with you, sir. American officers are not in the habit of playing such ‘jokes,’ as you call them. You are spies, sir!”
“It’s all over,” groaned Stanley. “Shiver my timbers, Mr. Stark,” tapping his revolver, “but I’ve six bullets in here that are just itching to find their way into a South American carcass.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Stanley, take your hand off your revolver. You may cost us all our lives.”
“I’m afraid they’re as good as gone already, sir,” muttered the man-of-war’s man gloomily.
General de Guzman seemed disinclined to continue the interview.
“Take them away,” he ordered brusquely, turning away, while his spurs rang sharply on the tiled floor of the court.