“Who is you, an’ where you come fro?” asked the negro, addressing himself to Miles, whom he seemed intuitively to recognise as the chief of his party.
“We are British soldiers!” said Miles, drawing himself up with an air of dignity that would have done credit to the Emperor of China. You see, at that moment he felt himself to be the spokesman for, and, with his comrades, the representative of, the entire British army, and was put upon his mettle accordingly. “We come from Suakim—”
“Ay, black-face!” broke in Jack Molloy at that moment, “and you may tell him that if he has the pluck to go to Suakim, he’ll see plenty more British soldiers—an’ British seamen too—who’ll give him an’ his friends a hot and hearty welcome wi’ bullet, bayonet, and cutlash whenever he feels inclined.”
“Are you officer?” asked the negro of Miles, and not paying the smallest attention to Molloy’s warlike invitation.
“No, I am not.”
Turning to the armed men, the officer gave them an order which caused them to advance and stand close to the Englishmen—two beside each prisoner—with drawn swords. An extra man took up his position behind Molloy, evidently having regard to his superior size! Then two men, who looked like jailers, advanced to Stevenson, cut the cords that bound his arms, and proceeded to put iron fetters on his wrists.
“Comrades,” said Molloy, in a low voice, when he perceived that his turn was coming, “shall we make a burst for it—kill them all, get out into street, cut and slash through the town, and make a grand run for it—or die like men?”
“Die like fools!” growled Simkin, as he suffered his hands to be manacled.
“No, no, Jack,” said Armstrong; “don’t be rash. Let’s bide our time. There’s no sayin’ what’ll turn up.”
“Well, well,” sighed Molloy, resigning himself to his fate, “there’s only one thing now that’s sartin sure to turn up, an’ that is the sod that’ll cover our graves.”