“Yes. The delightful English gentlemen you met on the mail steamer.”
“I—I beg your pardon, general, I——”
“There they are, sir—there!” exclaimed the general, motioning impatiently toward the party from the Beale.
“Why, sir, those are not Englishmen. At least, two of them are not. Those two fellows there are sailors off the Beale—the American destroyer.”
The blow had fallen. Now that it had come Ned felt himself surprised at his calmness. That all was over now he felt little doubt.
“Well, shooting’s a quick death,” he thought.
Suddenly the voice of the general broke the tense silence.
“Is this true?”
“There is no doubt of it, sir!” exclaimed Charbonde, “and moreover I verily believe that Providence has delivered into our hands the very men who made off with our guns last night. See!” he exclaimed, pointing at Stanley’s bound wrist, which the sailor attempted to cover up too late, “that man is wounded.”
All this time the midshipman had stood motionless. Not a word had passed his lips. Now General de Guzman turned to him with a savage look.