"March in," said the sergeant.
And the prisoners, with bayonets at their backs, were forced up the steps and into the building.
The door shut again with a dull iron clang that sounded like a death knell to Clif.
Ignacio entered, too. He seemed to have the privilege of going where he chose; the sentries who were guarding that door asked him no questions.
It was apparently some sort of a military jail to which they had been taken. Down a long stone corridor they were marched, and then halted in front of a door.
The sergeant entered, and Ignacio after him. The rest waited outside.
It must have been at least fifteen minutes before anything more occurred. Then the sergeant came out, and ordered the prisoners to enter.
Clif, as the officer, entered first, and he found himself facing a tall, military looking Spaniard with a resplendent uniform and an air of authority. Who he was Clif had no idea, but he was evidently in command of the place.
He was a dark, savage-looking man, and his brows were drawn down as he frowned upon the prisoners.
And Clif was not surprised.