There were looks of hatred upon their unpleasant faces, and their remarks it may be believed were not complimentary.
"The Yankee pigs have met their match at last," snarled one tobacco-stained peon, who had forced his way up close to Clif.
"And they'll go to Havana as they wanted to," put in another, with a leer. "They were boasting they'd get there."
There were some grins at that sally, which encouraged the Spaniard to go on.
"How do you like it?" he inquired. "Santa Maria, couldn't you have run fast enough?"
"They won't run any more," snarled another. "They'll be put where they're safe."
An old woman with a haggard, savage-looking face and a heavy stick shook the latter in the Americans' faces, as she cursed them in her shrill, Spanish jargon.
And then suddenly came a loud cry from the outskirts of the crowd.
"Stone the pigs! Kill 'em! Don't let them get away!"
Clif could not see the man who yelled that, but he knew the voice, and realized that Ignacio was getting in his fine work again.