To his joy, and rather surprised, he felt his automatic pistol in one pocket and his silver-plated handcuffs in the other, together with his handkerchief, gloves, and other little things he had carried there before he was made a prisoner.
“Strange they didn’t rob me,” he muttered. “But, after all, that is not their object, I suppose. What they want is to keep me out of Penza till Prince Miguel and Don Solado, with the remainder of the blackguardly plotters, have signed that paper which gives Joyalita partly to the neighboring country of Carita, and partly to Prince Miguel. It looks as if they would succeed in that, too,” he added, “unless I find some way to circumvent my friend here with the odd eye and the tarred-rope mustache.”
Perhaps Gaspara surmised that the detective was making uncomplimentary comments on his personal appearance.
He stepped in front of his prisoner, and, transfixing him horribly with his solitary optic, poured out a volume of spluttering Spanish, interspersed with oaths in that language, which Nick would have had difficulty in following had he not been so familiar with the tongue.
“See here, my prince!” snarled Gaspara. “I shall not put ropes on you, or shut you up anywhere. I have no prisons, and I can’t spare cords to tie you. But if you walk out of this cave, you will be met at the outside by two of my men.”
“Well?” queried Nick, as he paused.
“It is very well,” grinned the brigand, showing two rows of white teeth in doing so. “They will cut off your ears.”
“Pleasant!” remarked Nick, aloud—without meaning to do so.
“The second time you do it, they will kill you.”
“There will be no second time,” declared Nick Carter.