"Stop him! Stop him!" roared the stranger. "A thousand pounds to the man who takes him alive. He's the ringleader of the insurrection!"
Colonel Gordon hurried down the steps in bewildered amazement.
"What does this mean?" he demanded. "Who are you?"
"Who am I?" shouted he of the sandy whiskers. "Why, blast your impudence, I'm Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor of Zaila. Who the deuce are you?"
The scene that followed baffles all description. The air rang with frenzied shouts and cheers, soldiers, natives, and visitors surged madly round the little band, and the musicians, quick to grasp the situation, struck up the inspiring strains of "Lo, the Conquering Hero Comes!"
Sir Arthur shook himself loose from the embrace of his enthusiastic friends.
"The Portuguese!" he roared. "The rascal will escape. Pursue him! Capture him!"
Now the people comprehended for the first time. A furious rush was made for the residency, the door was jammed in an instant with a struggling crowd of troops and civilians, and then they swept on through the broad hallway in pursuit of the wretched fugitive.
In five minutes the town was in an indescribable uproar. The vessels in the harbor fired showers of rockets, and the alarm guns boomed hoarsely from the fortifications.
Manuel Torres, however, overthrown at the very moment of his greatest triumph, made good his escape. He bolted through the back door of the residency, evaded the sentries at the town wall, and fled to the desert.