And then there were several moments of silence while the three actors of this little drama watched each other eagerly.
Ignacio was fairly beside himself with triumph. He could scarcely keep himself quiet, and under his bushy eyebrows, his dark eyes gleamed triumphantly.
He had played his trump card. And he had his victim where he wanted him at last. To watch him under the torture of his present position was almost as good as to watch him under the torture of the knife.
For what could he do? He might bluster and protest (all to Ignacio's glee) but nobody would believe him.
For Ignacio knew that the Spanish officer was glad enough to believe the story the spy told him. His prejudice and his hatred of Americans would turn the scale.
And it would be fine to punish a Yankee pig for such a crime as this.
As for Clif, he was filled with a kind of dull despair; he knew the odds against him, and realized that his struggles would be those of a caged animal. He had done nothing but his duty and the law of nations would have justified him. But Ignacio's lie upon that one small point (of what the Spanish gunboat had done) was enough to make him liable to death.
The officer seemed to realize the smallness of difference, for he turned to Ignacio.
"Are you perfectly sure," he demanded, "that you heard our vessel announce her identity?"
"I am, senor."