If it had depended on Ned to speak at that instant the fate of the party would have been sealed then and there. His tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. He regarded the ruddy-faced insurgent leader with a look of downright dismay. Fortunately, however, Midshipman Stark’s presence of mind did not desert him.

“Oh, I say, general, come!” he burst out, with a ghastly attempt at a laugh, “that’s a bit rough, eh?”

“Hum, you sound like an Englishman,” was the general’s comment. “I beg your pardon, senor, for mistaking you for a Yankee.”

The detestation with which he uttered the words convinced Ned—if he had, indeed, needed any convincing, that they were in as dangerous a position as could be imagined. One slip and they might find themselves with their backs against a wall, facing a row of insurgent rifles.

“If he ever speaks to me, it’s all off,” thought Ned, with a groan.

But luckily the general confined his conversation to Stark, who, as he went on, grew more confident.

“What seems to be the spirit of the city?” asked the general, after some questions regarding the number of ships in the harbor and so forth.

“Oh, favorable, general, favorable,” responded Stark confidently, feeling secure in his non-committal answer.

“You have been there long?”

“We arrived on the mail steamer yesterday, sir.”

“Indeed! then you were fellow passengers with one of my most faithful followers, Senor Charbonde?”

“Senor, I beg your pardon, I didn’t quite catch the name.”
 
“Senor Charbonde. You met him, did you not?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Charming chap, very. Delighted to make his acquaintance, upon my honor.”

“I am glad you like him, senor, for he is here now, and you will be able to renew your acquaintance.”

Had somebody stepped into the courtyard and offered him a commission as admiral of the Atlantic squadron, Ned could not have felt more dumfounded. Of course, from what they had learned from the peons on the captured launch the night before, they knew that Charbonde was in the country, but that he was so near at hand was a positive bombshell.

The blankest of blank looks passed between the Dreadnought Boys and Stanley.

“Stand by for trouble now,” whispered Stanley to Ned.

“The jig is up,” was Herc’s contribution.

Ned, true to his promise, had placed the midshipman in possession of the facts connected with[164] their knowledge of the insurgent agent, so that the general’s words were fully as disquieting to him as to the others. Although there was no possibility of General de Guzman’s knowing the cause of their evident perturbation, he evidently noted it, for a malicious smile curled his lips. He suddenly turned, as some footsteps sounded behind him, and a tall figure, escorting a young woman in a riding habit, appeared.

“Ah, Senor Charbonde,” greeted the general, “some friends of yours are here.”

“Friends of mine, sir?” exclaimed Charbonde in an astonished tone. He dropped the young woman’s arm and came forward.

“Yes. The delightful English gentlemen you met on the mail steamer.”

“I—I beg your pardon, general, I——”

“There they are, sir—there!” exclaimed the general, motioning impatiently toward the party from the Beale.

“Why, sir, those are not Englishmen. At least, two of them are not. Those two fellows there[165] are sailors off the Beale—the American destroyer.”

The blow had fallen. Now that it had come Ned felt himself surprised at his calmness. That all was over now he felt little doubt.

“Well, shooting’s a quick death,” he thought.

Suddenly the voice of the general broke the tense silence.

“Is this true?”

“There is no doubt of it, sir!” exclaimed Charbonde, “and moreover I verily believe that Providence has delivered into our hands the very men who made off with our guns last night. See!” he exclaimed, pointing at Stanley’s bound wrist, which the sailor attempted to cover up too late, “that man is wounded.”

All this time the midshipman had stood motionless. Not a word had passed his lips. Now General de Guzman turned to him with a savage look.

“What have you to say to this, Mr. Englishman?”

“That I am sorry I tried to take you in,” shot[166] out Stark crisply. “I am an American officer, and proud of my commission.”

“So, since when has it been the duty of American officers to come skulkingly disguised within the lines of neutral forces?”

“Our errand here was one of curiosity only and purely of a non-combative nature,” protested Stark.

“Bah! sir. Bah!” exclaimed the general angrily, impatiently, “do not bandy words with me.”

He drew a whistle from his belt and blew it. Instantly a score of soldiers entered the courtyard. Their bayonets were fixed and their expressions fierce.

“Make those men prisoners,” ordered the general in Spanish.

“Surely yo............