“That is false,” the captain answered. “You are not English. You are French. Your cap proves it. You are a deserter from the French ship which called here.”
“If there be any English or Scotchman here,” Sard said, “or any American, I can prove that I am English.”
“We desire no proof, since we need none. You were on the line, that suffices; without papers, which clinches it. You are arrested.”
“You had better not arrest me,” Sard said; “in spite of my clothes, I am an officer, equal in rank to yourself.”
“Enough words,” the captain said.
“By many, too many words,” the lieutenant said.
“At least,” Sard said, “you can telegraph to the British Consul at Las Palomas about me, or send me to him.”
“It is not for you to prescribe our course of action,” the captain said. “You are arrested. Your case will have every consideration. Meanwhile, to the barracks.”
“To the barracks: march,” the lieutenant added.
If he had resisted, perhaps if he had said another word, they would have shot him and pitched him down a disused working. Sard knew that the silver escorts were apt to shoot to save trouble. He judged it best to submit. “They are cross from the sandstorm,” he thought; “soon they will have lunched; then they will listen to reason; or I can get word to some Englishman, or to the Consul.” Like all sailors, he had the utmost contempt for soldiers; to be jailed by soldiers was a bitter experience.