Through the jeering camp the American prisoners were marched. They had, of course, been searched and their revolvers confiscated. How fortunate, Ned thought it then, that he had left the will in safe hands before they started on their perilous errand. From the general’s manner, he had seen that it was of even more importance than he had deemed it.

“I wonder if he is not withholding his niece’s inheritance from her,” he thought.

But there was little opportunity for reflection as they were hurried along the white coast road toward Miraflores. All the way they were greeted with jeers and execrations.

“Yankee pigs” was the mildest of the epithets hurled at them with true South American vehemence.
 
Behind the file of soldiers which formed their escort came Charbonde and Hank, both mounted on wiry little native horses. The latter held a handkerchief to his face, on which a large, dark bruise was rapidly forming. At that moment Hank would have ridden a much greater distance than the few miles to Miraflores to witness Ned’s execution.

At last they entered the town—a fair-sized place under a sloping bank of greenery. In front stretched the sea. In a vain hope of rescue from thence the sailors looked ocean-ward, but the expanse was empty of life. Not a sail or a funnel marred its glistening surface.

Through the town, while women joined the ranks of their tormentors, the dusty, worried Americans were marched straight up to a small building with barred windows.

“The prison!” flashed across Ned’s mind.

But he soon found that the place was a courtroom—dark, cool and dusty. At the head of a long table standing on trestles, which occupied the center of the chamber, Charbonde took his[174] seat. There were some papers there and ink and pens. He wrote rapidly for several minutes, while the prisoners stood dejectedly amidst their guards at the other end of the table. Hank stood by the South American, leaning over and occasionally offering advice, or so it seemed.

At last Charbonde looked up. As he did so a thrill of horror passed through the boys. They realized at last that this room was the courtroom in which they were to undergo the mockery of a trial for their lives. As they waited several other officers sauntered in as if to a show. One of them addressed Charbonde as colonel. This explained at once his precedence at the so-called court-martial.

Standing up, Charbonde read rapidly in a sing-song voice from the indictment he had just drawn up. As it was in Spanish the Dreadnought Boys did not understand a word of it. So rapidly did the colonel—as we must now call him—read, in fact, that even Midshipman Stark and Stanley, both of whom understood the language, had but a vague idea of the charges.
 
“Well, gentlemen, what have you to say?” inquired Charbonde, as he finished reading from the document.

“Do I understand that you have charged us with conducting a naval expedition into your lines for the purposes of ascertaining your forces and position?” asked the middy in a firm voice.

“You do, sir,” rejoined Charbonde, sitting back and nibbling his pen point in a judicial manner. It was evident that he was enjoying the situation thoroughly.

“But—but I protest,” burst out the young officer, “the navy has nothing whatever to do with this thing. It is purely a private enterprise—if you want to call it that. Don’t you understand?”

“I must confess I do not. There now remains but one thing to do. Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence and the defense, what is your verdict?”

He turned to the lounging officers.

“This is an outrage!” shouted the midshipman. “I demand to be heard. I——”
 
A touch on his arm quieted him. It was Stanley.

“Keep cool, sir,” he advised, “it ain’t no use appealing to reason when you find yourself in a den of tigers.”

After a few moments of whispering among themselves, Charbonde stepped forward from the group of officers. All looked curiously at the boys.

“The court finds you guilty as charged,” he said in a crisp, curt voice. “It is now my duty to impose sentence.”

Utter silence fell in the gloomy room. Outside could be heard the rattle of a sentry’s rifle as he changed arms. The hammer of a horse’s hoofs across a distant bridge was painfully distinct.

“I sentence you to be shot to-morrow at sunrise!”

“Great heavens! you can’t mean this. We——”

“Now, then, sir, steady on,” warned Stanley once more, as the middy was beginning a fresh plea. “It won’t do any good, sir.”
 
“Remove the prisoners and see that they are guarded closely,............