"Is my life guaranteed?" asked the president, who was trembling like a leaf.
"You will not die a violent death at our hands," replied the general urbanely.
"You mean to murder me," howled the wretched man.
"I would have you shot by a platoon with the greatest pleasure, I assure you," remarked Galento with well-assumed indifference. "Unfortunately, as far as my inclination is concerned, I have given a promise to the English commandante of the Cavarale."
"They are referring to you, Dacres," said Gerald Whittinghame, who, unseen by the president and his followers, had followed the whole of the conversation. "There is no further need for concealment. That rascal Zaypuru will surrender to you."
Although Zaypuru had not hesitated to treat his British captives with indignity, he had a certain amount of respect for the word of an Englishman. Directly Dacres crossed over to where Galento was standing, the President got down from his horse, and unbuckling his sword, tendered it to the Englishman.
Just then a rattle of musketry was heard without. Those of the President's escort who had been left on the remote side of the dry ditch had taken cover behind the outer wall and were firing at the Valderians who held the roof of the prison. The latter briskly replied, and the exchange of shots was rapidly maintained.
"Where are you, Whittinghame?" shouted Dacres. "Tell some of these men to take the prisoner to the Commandante's quarters. I'll have to direct operations against those fellows who are kicking up a dust outside."
Directly Gerald Whittinghame appeared on the scene Zaypuru's terrors returned. The sight of the man whom he had treated with uncalled for severity filled him with the most abject fright. He fell on his knees, and, upraising his clasped hands, implored his former captive to have pity.
"Get up, and don't make a fool of yourself," exclaimed Gerald sternly. "You won't be hurt unless you give trouble."