When at last day dawned a striking scene was visible on the shore.
In the prow of his long-boat, not over twenty feet from the beach, stood the Spanish admiral, while from the brink of the water Vytal spoke to him.
Farther up the strand twelve musketeers were ranged in line with weapons aimed, not at the long-boat’s crew, but at a single figure that stood against the cliff. This form, slight and graceful, was nevertheless distinctly masculine in bearing. With eyes blindfolded, mouth gagged, and hands fettered behind his back, the man awaited his fate calmly.
But the fate was yet unknown. The musketeers stolidly awaited the last signal from their leader, and the signal was delayed.
“You perceive,” said Vytal to the admiral, “that your friend’s life is in imminent danger. At a word from me he falls, but at the word I desire from you he lives and shall be saved.”
The Spaniard bowed haughtily. “Name your conditions,” and with a sweep of their oars the rowers drew nearer to the shore. Vytal turned and glanced upward at the headland, from which the colonists were looking down in silent curiosity. Foremost of all stood Eleanor Dare watching him.
He faced about again to address the admiral. “The condition is this: that you abandon to us the Madre de Dios in exchange for the prisoner. Your spy hath broken our truce. There are but two available indemnities—the one your ship, the other his life as forfeit. I bid you choose.”
An ironical smile crossed the Spaniard’s face. “Do you consider his life of so great value?” he asked, banteringly.
“Nay,” said Vytal, “I but seek to estimate your own valuation. This fellow hath boasted of a royal guardian—even the King of Spain.”