“The court finds you guilty as charged,” he said in a crisp, curt voice. “It is now my duty to impose sentence.”
Utter silence fell in the gloomy room. Outside could be heard the rattle of a sentry’s rifle as he changed arms. The hammer of a horse’s hoofs across a distant bridge was painfully distinct.
“I sentence you to be shot to-morrow at sunrise!”
“Great heavens! you can’t mean this. We——”
“Now, then, sir, steady on,” warned Stanley once more, as the middy was beginning a fresh plea. “It won’t do any good, sir.”
“Remove the prisoners and see that they are guarded closely,” came the next command from Charbonde.
“Keep a stiff upper lip, Herc,” whispered Ned, as they were marched from the room where this parody of a trial had taken place.
“All right, Ned,” answered the red-headed Dreadnought Boy grittily enough, “but it’s tough, isn’t it?”
Under his freckles and tan the lad was ashy white. Ned himself, pluckily as he tried to bear it, was not far from breaking down at that moment. Fortunately, however, for their self-respect—for they would rather have cut off their right hands than have shown any weakness before the South Americans—the very suddenness with which their doom had been pronounced had partially stunned them. Stanley shuffled forward down the dusty street as if in a daze. Midshipman Stark was in the same condition. Once when he got near to Ned he said in low voice: