At daybreak on the following morning work was renewed. The condemned section, stripped of everything of value that had escaped the hail of hostile shot, had been removed from the adjoining divisions. Most of the leaks had been stopped, and Whittinghame had good reasons for hoping that the air test could be applied that afternoon.
Just before noon one of the outposts signalled that three armed men were approaching, but whether they were alone or merely the advance guard of a force of Valderian troops he could not determine.
Whittinghame, Dacres and Setchell were quickly on the spot, where, sheltered behind a ridge of rocks, they could command the approach of the three strangers.
Bringing their glasses to bear the officers saw that the party consisted of an elderly man and two who might be anything between eighteen and twenty-five, even when taking into account the effect of the climate. Each had a rifle slung across his back and a short native knife, somewhat resembling the Mexican machete, in a sheath on the right hip.
They had naturally seen the several separated portions of the "Meteor" as well as the after-part of the wreck of the "Libertad," and had left the beaten track with the evident intention of making a closer inspection.
"Not much strategy shown there," observed Dacres. "They make no attempt to conceal themselves. Who and what are they, I wonder?"
"We'll soon find out," replied Whittinghame, and beckoning to six of the crew he ordered them to make a detour in order to cut off the strangers' retreat.
Nearer and nearer came the three men, chatting unrestrainedly and gesticulating excitedly. Whittinghame, who spoke Spanish with tolerable fluency, strained his ears to catch the drift of their conversation.
"Frenchmen, by Jove!" ejaculated Dacres.
"I think not," whispered his chief. "Now!"