Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.
The Capture of the Caçadores.
The black, though presumably the lowest in rank, was the first to break speech.
“No, ye don’t!” cried he, moving his musket up and down, while still keeping it levelled upon the foremost of the caçadores. “No, Mister Jack Spaniard, not a foot d’you set outside that door till we see what you’ve been a-doin’ ’ithin there. Steady, now, or thar’s an ounce of lead into yer garlicky inside! Steady!”
“Surrender!” commanded Cubina, in a firm, authoritative voice, and with a threatening gesture, which, though less demonstrative than that of his lieutenant, was equally indicative of determination. “Drop your machetés, and yield at once! Resistance will only cost you your lives.”
“Come, my Spanish worthies,” said Herbert, “you know me! I advise you to do as you’re bid. If there’s nothing against you, I promise no harm—Ha! ’ware heels!” he continued, in sharp haste, observing that the Spaniards were looking over their shoulders, as if intending to escape by the back of the hut. “Don’t attempt to run away. You’ll be caught, no matter how fast you go. I’ve got two barrels here; and each is good for a bird on the wing. Show your backs, and they’ll be preciously peppered, I promise you.”
“Carajo!” hissed out the older of the caçadores. “What do you want with us?”
“Ay!” added the other, in a tone of innocent reproach; “what have we been doing to make all this fanfaron about?”