Roblado was in his element.
He had a military or naval cut about his appearance, and no doubt could swell with importance when on the deck of his ship or at the head of his brigade.
"Tis well, comrades, we have secured the beast. What can prevail against Spanish valor? Those who are foolish enough to get in our way must pay the penalty, poor fools. Now that we have caught the great American eagle what shall we do with him?" he asked, still maintaining a consequential grip upon Roderic's coat tails.
"Clip his wings!" said one in Castilian.
Various other suggestions were offered, some amusing, others diabolical in their cruelty.
Roderic laughed good naturedly.
"Ah! gentlemen all," he remarked in that calm and pleasant way that indicates perfect control over the emotions, "you seem to forget you are not in Spain or Cuba, where such delightful little picnic parties as you mention are of daily occurrence. You are in the dominion of Her Majesty Queen Victoria—her officers are watching every move you make, and at this moment the shadow of Portland prison hangs over you, every man.
"Don't imagine for a moment my presence is not known to these men from Scotland Yard, for we are working hand in glove. I am in your power, and you may do as you please, but mark me, if a hair of my head is injured every man here will be in irons before two hours have passed. That is all!"
It was enough.
The Jack Spaniards were shaky at the knees.