Wellington had thrown both arms into the air as a token that his teeth were drawn and that he surrendered.
"To the boat!" said Captain Beven, knowing that a thousand Spanish soldiers would be on the spot ere ten minutes had passed.
Although this round had been so gloriously won he knew they still had a hard row to hoe ere success could be assured.
Still, when were brave hearts of the Saxon race dismayed by even overwhelming odds—the record of many a fierce battle fought on European, Asian, African and American fields bears testimony of their dauntless grit.
Jerome's attitude would have been ludicrous at any other time—he seemed desirous of raising his arms to their highest possible level.
"You have won—you deserve success—I have had enough—count me out, and good luck go with the whole of you!" was what he bawled as they passed him by.
The tiger's claws had been trimmed.
Shackelford was not so magnanimous—he had a game leg that would trouble him no doubt for the rest of his life, and his benediction was in the shape of some hot blasphemy that doubtless eased his soul more or less.
It was a strange parting from the villain of the play—but then Jerome was after all only an adventurer whose maxim it was to sip honey from the beautiful flowers, and leave dangerous briars alone.