The banana planters had betrayed us, having some knowledge of what transpired in Bolivar on the night of the flower festa, and aware of the fat reward offered for our apprehension.
One of them had gone to the beach while the other hied him to town with news for the alcalde.
The result was, I had an ugly awakening.
Perhaps I might have offered some show of resistance if there had been any chance; but one man is a fool to fight against twenty—dead I would be of no assistance to Hildegarde, while alive I could use my Yankee brain to advantage.
I turned to look at her.
What a pitiful smile she threw me, as though she accused herself of having brought all this horrible ill luck upon me.
I determined to keep up a brave face for her sake as well as my own, and immediately called out some cheering words.
At any rate, while our situation might not be all we would desire, it could have been much worse.
I thought of my gallant fellows perhaps strewn along that pitiless beach, and somehow the remembrance made me feel more thankful.
There was an American present—a man with the face of a parson, but whom I knew to be a cold-blooded old rascal—Hildegarde’s father, the man for whom she had done so much, but whose avaricious soul hankered constantly after more, and who had plotted with his colleague, the mayor, to possess the remainder of her fortune.