This slight commotion was sufficient to arouse the sleeping soldiers.
"Surrender or we shoot!" ordered Callaghan in the execrable Spanish he had picked up during a three years' commission in Gibraltar dockyard.
Without hesitation the men threw up their arms.
"Now what's to be done with this lot, sir?" asked the Irishman. "We can't waste time lashing 'em up."
Dacres saw that the windows were small and heavily barred, and that the locks on the door were strong.
"Remove the bolts of those rifles," he ordered. "Now, Callaghan, tell these men that if they attempt to escape or utter a sound we'll make it hot for them."
This the Irishman did, uttering threats that he had learned from the Scorps of the Rock which, judging by the speaker's ferocious gestures, struck terror into the hearts of the cowardly Valderians. They vowed compliance with such vehemence that they had to be told to keep silence lest the noise should alarm the rest of the garrison of the prison. Locking both doors and taking possession of the keys, Dacres led his men towards the barrack-quarters where the remainder of the rank and file—thirty all told—were asleep.
Now it was that Dacres' knowledge of the plan of the buildings was put to good account. He knew that underneath was a large storeroom, to which the only means of access was by a trap-door in the corridor outside the barrack-room. Once the soldiers could be forced into this semi-dungeon they would be incapable of doing any mischief.
The room was in darkness. A delay ensued till one of the "Meteor's" men took down a lantern that was hanging in the covered way.
"Two at a time," whispered Dacres, pointing to the triple line of sleeping men who were stretched in various attitudes on straw palliasses on the floor.