He was in a cave, lighted only by the daylight that found its way in by a tunnellike entry, and six men stood around.
With the exception of one, whom he knew at once to be his old acquaintance, Jason, they were strangers to him. A second glance told him they were of the brigand type which is by no means uncommon in the wilder parts of Central and South America.
They were roughly dressed, with lightweight calico shirts, high-laced boots, and broad-brimmed hats, which slouched over their evil faces.
Each man had a belt with cartridges and pistol, and there was a rifle in the hands of the individual who seemed to be in command.
This gentleman, who had a long black mustache and a heavy beard of the same hue, and whose beauty had been interfered with by the loss of an eye, glared at Nick Carter sideways through the eye he had still, and grunted, in Spanish:
“What’s your name?”
“Prince Marcos,” replied Nick Carter composedly.
“Is that right, señor?” asked the one-eyed chieftain, swinging around to Jason.
“It is. But the people of Joyalita are not pleased with him. They want him to be punished.”
This evidently struck all the rascals as a joke, for they joined in a raucous chorus of mirth which made Nick itch to pass around and give each one a hearty raise with his foot.