A deep frown of annoyance furrowed the count’s brow.
“Isn’t this time inopportune?” he exclaimed angrily.
Phil appreciated that every moment was valuable. The news of the landing of the sailors was on the way. The runners that they had passed on the road were probably bringing the unwelcome tidings.
“It is of the highest importance,” the lad replied tensely. “Otherwise you must know that my captain would not have sent me at this time.”
Phil noted a suspicion of alarm in the count’s face. Suddenly a buzz of excitement disturbed the quiet, and Phil, glancing about quickly, following people’s gaze, saw the flash of search-lights from the direction of Ukula.
“That is what I have come to explain,” Phil added, gaining confidence. The “Sacramento” was entering the harbor. In a few minutes, the admiral had said, three hundred sailors would be on shore to reënforce Commander Tazewell’s men.
The count without other than a sign to follow him turned and entered the house.
In a room giving off from the hall, and lighted only by a single oil lamp, he stopped and motioned Phil to speak.
“An American admiral has arrived, and all the American and English sailors and marines are now holding Ukula. Commander Tazewell begs that you will use your good offices to prevent useless bloodshed. Your warriors must not attempt to return to-night. To-morrow the admiral will hold council, and invites you to come to arrange a peaceful settlement. That is all, sir,” Phil added finally.
The count’s face was livid, while the hand that pulled his long moustache shook like an aspen. Words for once failed him. He knew that he had played and lost.