Pickle took out his midshipman’s dirk and flourished it around.
“Hide that thing,” said Somers. “I hope we sha’n’t have to murder anybody on this expedition.”
They were still some distance away from the tavern, from whose low windows, half a mile higher up, they could see a faint gleam, and the two young midshipmen who had fallen behind were concealed by a turn of the path, when some one stepped out of the bushes, and said quietly:
“You are the Americanos, are you not?”
Both Somers and Decatur recognized their acquaintance of that afternoon.
“Yes,” answered Somers, “and we have come to receive the letter from the American officers at Tripoli that Catalano, the pilot, has brought.”
In the meantime four men had approached silently and surrounded the two American officers. Somers, coolly putting his back to a stone wall that ran along the path, said:
“Where is Catalano?”
“One moment,” said the supposed Sicilian with a wolfish smile. “Have you ever heard of Mahomet Rous?”
“Yes,” answered Decatur—“the Tripolitan captain who hauled his colors down three times and then threw them overboard.”