"Yes, take care," cried Poole. "I believe that's a viper."

"So's this," said the carpenter, letting one end of the joist rest upon the ground and the other fall heavily right across the threatening snake. "Hah! That's a wiper, and I wiped him out."

Next moment he lifted the joist again, and used it pitchfork-fashion to jerk the completely crushed dangerous reptile out of another window, before advancing to the third corner, where a larger heap of Indian corn-husks seemed to have been drawn together.

"Anything there, Chips?" cried Fitz.

"Oh yes, there's a big un here—two on 'em; and they're telling tales of it, too, for they've left 'em hanging outside. Now, whereabouts will their heads be?"

"Take care," cried Poole, "for you may cripple one and leave the other to dart at you."

"Yes, and that wouldn't be nice," said the carpenter thoughtfully. "I don't mind tackling one of them, but two at a time's coming it a bit too strong. 'Tarn't fair like."

"Look here," cried Fitz, "we'll come in, and each have a joist. We should be sure to kill them then."

"I dunno so much about that, gen'lemen. You might help, and you moten't. If they made a rush you might be in my way, and you know, as old Andy says, Too many cooks spoil the snake-soup. Here, I know; I can soon turn them out."

"How?" cried Poole, as the man stood the joist up against the wall.

"I'll soon show you," cried the carpenter, pulling out a match-box.

"You'll burn the place down."

"Nay," cried the man; "them corn-shucks will just flare up with a fizz; I can trample them out before they catch the wood. You two be on the look-out, for there's no knowing which window my gentlemen will make for as soon as they find as it aren't the sun as is warming them up."

He struck a match as he spoke, let the splint get well alight, and then stepping forward softly he stooped down to apply it to the pale, dry, creamy-looking corn-leaves.

"Look out!" cried Fitz excitedly.

"Oh, my fingers are too hard to burn," growled the carpenter, ignoring the notion of the danger being from the serpents; and he applied the burning match to three places, letting the flame drop in the last, before he stepped quickly back, watching the bright crackling flare which rose in each spot where he had applied the match and then began to run together to form one blaze.

"Why, there's nothing there," cried Poole.

"Oh, yes, there is, gen'lemen, and they're beginning to feel it. It's so nice and warm that—Look, they are pulling their tails in under the blanket to get their share. Now they says it's too hot. Look out; here they come."

The warning was not needed, for there was a sharp, fierce hissing heard plainly above the spluttering crackle of the burning husks, the pile was violently agitated, and then the burning heap was heaved up and scattered about in various directions, while, half-hidden by the smoke, it seemed as if a couple of pieces of stout Manilla cable were being furiously shaken upon the earthen floor.

"Murder!" shouted Poole, starting back from the window where he stood, his action being involuntarily imitated by Fitz, who just caught a glance of the snake that had startled his companion passing like a flash over the window-sill, and making at what seemed to be an impossible speed for a clump of bushes close at hand.

"That's one of them," cried Fitz breathlessly. "What about the other?"

Bang! Bang! Thud! Thud! came from inside the room, and then the answer in the carpenter's gruff voice—

"I got him at last," he said. "He was a lively one. Reg'lar dodger. Come and look here. It's all right; he's done. My! He is a whopper!"

The inclination to look in was not great, but the boys stepped back at once to the windows they had left, to see that the burning heap was well alight, but apparently all in motion, while the carpenter was standing near, half-hidden by smoke, pressing the end of the joist he had used down upon a writhing serpent which he was holding pinned against the earth in the middle of the flames.

"Take care! Take care!" cried Poole. "It'll be furious if it gets from underneath that piece of wood."

"He'd be clever if he did, sir. I got him too tight. It's all right, and I am making use of him at the same time."

"Nonsense! Come out, man; you will have the place on fire directly."

"Oh, no, I shan't, sir. Don't you see, I am letting him whack and scatter it all out. There won't be enough to do any mischief now.—Hah! He's quieting down; and he's the last on 'em. If there were any others they are smoked out."

As he spoke the lads could plainly see that the reptile's efforts to escape were growing weaker, while the rest of the party, who had been busy at the other end of the hacienda, had collected at window and door, attracted by the rising smoke.

"Just in time, mates! About another two minutes and he'll be done. Now then," the speaker added, "I don't want to spoil him," and raking out the heaving reptile, he forked it to the door and tossed it a few yards away into the clearing. "All together!" he shouted. "Fair play! Knives out. Who's for a cut of hot roast?"

Chips's pantomime was at an end, for, rifle in hand, the skipper came running up.

"What's the meaning of this?" he roared. "Why don't you put that fire out? Do you want to burn the place down? Who's been smoking here?"

"It's all right, father. There were snakes under the floor, but Chips has burned them out."

"Oh, that's it! Dangerous brutes! Here, Winks, how have you been getting on?"

"Oh, tidy, sir, tidy," said the carpenter, wiping his smarting eyes as he tried to check a cough and made it worse. "You see, there was no stuff, and I had to tear up the floor."

"Capital," said the skipper, as he examined the preparations. "Couldn't be better, my man. Here, if there's time you shall serve those other two rooms the same. Axes here, my lads. Cut down those bushes and pile them up under the windows. We mustn't leave them there for cover."

"Take care," cried Fitz. "There's a great snake in there. Here, Poole, let's each take a joist and beat him out."

"Hadn't we better try a match, sir? Them there bushes are that ily evergreen stuff as'll burn like fun."

"Yes," said the skipper. "We don't want the stuff for protection, and the enemy might throw a light in and burn us out. But look here, Chips, are there any sparks inside there, likely to set the wood-work alight?"

"Nay, sir; it was all fluffy touch-and-go stuff. There's nothing there now but smoke."

The man moved as he spoke towards the clump of ornamental shrubs in which the big snake had taken sanctuary, the two lads, each armed with a joist carried lance-fashion, following him up, while the skipper hurried into the building with one of the men, to satisfy himself that the carpenter's words were correct.

The remainder stood by to watch the firing of the clump of bushes, the news that they hid a serpent putting all upon the qui vive.

"Take care Chips," said Poole anxiously. "They are dangerous, treacherous things. We don't want to get you bitten."

"Of course you don't, my lad; but tchah! They aren't half so dangerous as I am with a box of matches in my hand. Here, wait a moment; which way's the wind? Oh, this 'ere. Blest if I know whether it's north south, or east west, for I've quite lost my bearings. Anyhow, it don't blow towards the house. Now then, I think I'll just have an armful of these 'ere plantain-leaves and them there bamboo. They're the things to burn."

He hastily collected as many dry great ragged banana-leaves as he could grasp, laid them in a heap to windward of the clump, and jumped back quickly, grinning hugely as he turned to the boys.

"He's there still," he said; "I heard him whisper like a sick goose as I popped that stuff down."

"We'd better look out, then, on the other side," cried Fitz, "or he'll make a bolt. Shall I get my gun?"

"No, no," said Poole; "we must have no firing now."

Fitz moved, joist in hand, towards the other side of the clump.

"Nay, you needn't do that, sir," cried the carpenter. "That's what we want him to do."

"Oh, I see; you don't want there to be any waste," said Poole.

"Ugh!" shuddered Fitz, and the carpenter grinned as he hurriedly snapped off as many dead bamboos as he could secure from a waving, feathery group, bore the bundle the next minute to the edge of the clump of shrubs, laid them on the heap of banana-leaves, and then rapidly applied a burning match to the dry growth, which still retained a sufficiency of inflammable oil to begin to flare at once, making the bamboos crackle and then explode with a series of little reports like those of a revolver.

"That's right," said the carpenter; "if we had only got a few dozen cocoanut-shells to help it on, we should have a bonfire as'd beat a Guy Foxer all to fits."

But there were no cocoanuts to be had without paying a visit to the seashore, so the fire was mended with the bushes that were cut down from here and there, blazing up so furiously that in a few minutes the clump was consumed, and the snake with it, for it was not seen again.

"Now then," said the skipper, "scatter those embers about, and put an end to that smoke, or it will attract the enemy and show them where we are."

These orders were carried out, and the next hour was spent in adding to the defences as far as was possible, in seeing to there being a supply of water, and examining what there was in the shape of provisions in store.

But other precautions were being taken at the same time, the skipper having sent out three of the men right and left along the forest-paths and towards the shore, so as to ensure them against surprise. Then the afternoon wore away, and the evening approached, without alarm, and before the night could fall in its rapid, tropical way, the scouts were recalled, sentries posted, and the defenders gathered-together in their little fortress for their evening meal, by the light of the great stars, which seemed to Fitz double the size that they were at home.

Every one had his arms ready for use at a moment's notice, and the two lads sat together nibbling the biscuit they had brought with them, and moistening it from time to time with a draught of the water from the big pannikin which they shared. That change from glowing sunset to darkness had been wonderfully swift, and as the beauty of the surrounding jungle, with its wondrous tints of green, changed into black gloom, the aspect of the place affected the two young adventurers at once, Fitz giving vent to a long-drawn sigh.

"What's the matter?" said Poole, in a low voice.

"Oh, I don't know," replied the middy. "It seems so strange and weird here in the darkness. It makes me feel quite low-spirited."

"Do you know why that is?" asked Poole.

"Of course I do. It is all dark and dangerous, and at any time we may have those mongrel Spaniels, as Chips calls them, rushing at us and firing as they come."

"Well, we should fire at them back again," said Poole coolly. "But it isn't that that makes you nervous and dull."

"Isn't it? Well, I suppose I am not so brave as you," whispered the middy.

"Fudge! It's nothing to do with being brave. I don't feel brave. I am just as low-spirited as you are. It's because we are tired and hungry."

"Why, we are keeping on eating."

"Yes; biscuit-and-water. But that only keeps you from starving; it doesn't do you good. Why, if old Andy had a good fire and was roasting a wild turkey, or grilling some fish, we shouldn't feel dull, but be all expectation, and sniffing at the cooking, impatient till it was done."

"Well, I suppose there is something in that," said Fitz, "for I feel as faint as can be. I seem to have been so ever since I began to get better. Always wanting something more to eat."

"Of course you do. That's right enough."

"What's that?" cried Fitz, catching his companion by the arm; for there was a loud slap, as if the water of the river had suddenly received a sharp blow with the blade of an oar.

"I d'know," said Poole. "Boat coming, I think. Did you hear that, father?" And the speaker looked in the direction where the skipper had last been seen.

"Oh yes," was the reply, coming from outside one of the windows of the room they had strengthened with a breastwork.

"It's a boat coming, isn't it, father?"

"No, my lad," said the skipper, in a deep-toned growl. "It's one of the crocodiles or alligators fishing for its supper."

"No, no, Mr Reed," cried Fitz; "we mean that sound like a heavy slap on the water. There it goes again! That!"

"Yes, that's the sound I meant," said the skipper. "Sounds queer, doesn't it, in the darkness? But that's right. It's one of the great alligator fellows thrashing the water to stun the fish. This makes them turn up, and then the great lizardly thing swallows them down."

Fitz uttered a little grunt as if he thought it was very queer, and then went on nibbling his biscuit.

"Poole," he whispered, "what stupids we were not to go and fish before it got dark."

"That's just what I was thinking," was the reply.

"Yes," continued Fitz; "we hadn't as much sense as an alligator. I wish we had a good fish or two here."

"To eat raw?" said Poole scornfully. "Raw? Nonsense! We'd set old Andy to work."

"No, we shouldn't. How could we have a fire here? It would be like setting ourselves up for the enemy to fire at. Why, they could creep in through the jungle till they were fifty or sixty yards away, and take pot-shots at us. But only let us get to-night over, and we will go shooting or fishing as soon as it's day."

"Hark at that," said Fitz, catching him by the arm. "Here they come at last!" And not only the boys, but every one present but the skipper, felt a strange fluttering about the heart, as a curious hollow cry rose from somewhere at the edge of the jungle.

And then from out of the darkness there was a sharp click, click! of the lock of a rifle, the force of example bringing out quite a series of the ominous little sounds, which came forth sharp and clear as every one prepared to use his piece.

"Steady there, my lads!" growled the skipper. "You don't think you can shoot that bird?"

"There, laddies; I kenned it was a bird—one of them long-legged, big-beaked chaps that stand out in the water spearing eels. Wish we had got him now."

"Was that a bird, father?" whispered Poole. "Why, you ought to have known it was, my lad. There goes another, and another. If you listen you can hear the cry dying right away in the distance—one of those great cranes."

"Fine bird to keep for singing," said the cook, "only I want everything for the pot or the spit. There he goes again. What a rich voice, laddies! Sounds as if he were fat."

The rifles were uncocked gently and carefully, and all sat listening again, thoroughly on the qui vive, for though fully expecting that the first warning of danger would be a shot from one of the sentries, all felt that there was a possibility of the enemy stealing up in the darkness and making a rush which would quite take them by surprise.

It was depressing work to the wakeful, and as the hours stole slowly on first one and then another, tired out with the exertions of the day, let his head sink upon his breast where he crouched and gave audible notice that he had forgotten everything in the way of danger, in sleep.

From time to time the boys kept up a desultory conversation, but at last this ceased, and Fitz suddenly lifted his head with a jerk and began to look wonderingly round at the great stars.

"What's the matter?" said Poole, in a startled way.

"I dunno," replied the middy. "It seemed to me that somebody got hold of me and gave me a jerk."

"That's just how I felt. Look out!"

Fitz did look out as far as the darkness would allow, and his hands began to turn moist against the stock of his gun; but there was nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and both lads were beginning to think that the start and jerk were caused by their having been asleep themselves, when there was a familiar voice close at hand.

"Well, lads, how are you getting on?"

"Not very well, father," replied Poole. "Is it all right?"

"Yes, my boy; I have heard nothing but the cries of the night birds, and the creeping of something now and then among the boughs."

"Think the enemy will come to-night, Mr Reed?" said Fitz.

"Can't say, my lad. They may, or they may not. If they knew how easily they could get the better of us they would make a rush. Tut, tut, tut! Kick that fellow, Poole. Can't he sleep without snoring like that? Who is it?"

"I think it's Winks, father."

"Rouse him up, then."

"Eh? Hullo! All right! My watch?"

"No, no," said Poole. "Be quiet; you are snoring away as if you were sawing wood."

"Was I, my lad?" whispered the man. "Well, I believe I dreamed I was at that game. Any fighting coming off?"

"No, not yet."

"All right; then I'll have another nap."

But at that moment from out of the darkness, at apparently the edge of the jungle beyond the hacienda clearing, there was a sudden crashing as of the breaking of wood, followed instantly by an exceedingly shrill and piercing shriek, the rustle and beating of leaves, two or three low piteous sobs, and then silence for a few moments, followed by a soft rustling which died away.

"Steady there!" whispered the skipper, as he heard the click of a lock. "Don't fire, my lad. It would only be wasting a charge."

"But the savage has killed somebody, Mr Reed," whispered Fitz, in a voice he did not know as his own; and he crouched rigidly there with the butt of his piece to his shoulder, aiming in the direction of the sounds, and with every nerve upon the strain.

"Yes," said the skipper coolly; "the savage has killed somebody and has carried him off. There, you can hear the faint rustling still."

"But a savage could not carry a man off like that," said Fitz wonderingly.

"No," replied the skipper, with a low chuckle. "But that savage has gone off with the body he seized. Don't you know what it was, my lad?"

"No," replied Fitz wonderingly.

"Then I'll tell you, as far as I know myself. I should say that was one of those great cats, the tigers, as they call them here, the jaguars. He was prowling along in one of those big trees till he could see a monkey roosting, and then it was a leap like a cat at a rat, and he carried him off."

"Ah!" said Fitz, with a sigh. "I thought it was something worse."

"Couldn't have been any worse for the monkey," said Poole, laughing.

"No," continued Fitz thoughtfully; "but I didn't know there were jaguars here."

"Didn't you, my lad?" said the skipper quietly. "Why, we are just at the edge of the impenetrable jungle. There is only this strip of land between it and the sea, and the only way into it is up that little river. If we were to row up there we should have right and left pretty well every wild creature that inhabits the South American jungles: tigers—you have had a taste of the snakes this afternoon—water-hogs, tapirs, pumas too, I dare say. There goes another of those great alligators slapping the water with his tail."

"Would there be any of the great serpents?" asked Fitz.

"Any number," replied the skipper, "if we could penetrate to where they are; the great tree-living ones, and those water-boas that live among the swamps and pools."

"They grow very big, don't they?" said Fitz, who began to find the conversation interesting.

"All sizes. Big as you or me round the thickest part, and as long as—"

"A hundred feet?" said Poole.

"Well, I don't know about that, my boy," said the skipper. "I shouldn't like to meet one that size. I saw the skin of one that was over thirty, and I have heard tell by people out here that they had seen them five-and-forty and fifty feet long. They may grow to that size in these hot, steamy jungles. There is no reason why they shouldn't, when whales grow to seventy or eighty feet long in the sea; but I believe those monster anacondas of fifty feet long were only skins, and that either they or the stories had been very much stretched."

"What time do you think it is, father?"

"Well, by the feel of the night, my lad, I should say it's about three."

"As late as that, father? Time seems to have gone very quickly."

"Quickly, eh? That's proof positive, my boy, that you have had a nap or two. I have not, and I have found it slow."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A JUNCTION.

The skipper moved off into the darkness, and all was wonderfully still once more in the clearing. There was the dense jungle all round, but not a sound broke the silence, for it was the peculiar period between the going to rest of the myriad creatures who prey by night, and the waking up of those expectant of the sun.

Then there was a sound of about the most commonplace, matter-of-fact character that can be imagined. Fitz, as he lay half upon a heap of dry leaves and canes, opened his mouth very widely, yawned portentously and loudly, ending with, "Oh, dear me!" and a quickly-uttered correction of what seemed to him like bad manners: "I beg your pardon!"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Poole, "I was doing just the same. Here, you are a pretty sort of fellow," he continued, "to be on the watch, and kick up a shindy like that! Suppose the enemy had been sneaking in."

He had hardly finished speaking when Fitz caught him by the arm and sprang up, for there was a faint rustling, and the two lads felt more than saw that some one was approaching them. Relief came directly, for instead of a sudden attack, it was the skipper who spoke.

"Silence!" he said softly. "Here, if you two lads are as sleepy as that, lie down again till sunrise."

"No, no, father," said Poole; "I am all right now. You must be tired out. Burnett and I will go your rounds now."

"Thanks, my lad; but no, thank you."

"But you may trust me, father, and I will call you at daybreak."

"No, my boy; I couldn't sleep if I tried."

"No more could I now, father. Let me help you, then; and go round to see that the watch is all right."

"Very well. You go that way, and have a quiet chat with the man on duty. It will rouse him up. I am going round here."

The skipper moved off directly, and Poole, before starting off in the indicated direction, whispered to Fitz—

"You can have another snooze till I come back."

"Thank you; but I am going along with you."

Quite willing to accept his companionship, Poole led the way slowly and cautiously; but at the end of a few yards he stopped short.

"What's the matter?" whispered Fitz.

"Nothing yet; but I was just thinking. Is there any password?"

"I dunno," whispered Fitz.

"I didn't ask father, and it would be rather awkward if we were challenged and shot at."

"Oh, there's no fear of that. You'd know by the voice which of the men it was who spoke, and he'd know yours when you answered."

"To be sure. False alarm. Come on." It seemed darker than ever as they went forward on what seemed to be the track, but proved to be off it, for all at once as they were going cautiously on, literally feeling their way, Poole caught his foot against a stump and nearly fell headlong.

"Bother!" he ejaculated loudly, to add to the noise he made, and instantly a gruff voice from their right growled out, "Who goes there?" accompanying the question with a clicking of a rifle-lock. "Friends," cried Fitz sharply. "The word."

"Teal" cried Poole, as he scrambled up. "Aren't right," growled the same voice. "That you, Mr Poole?"

"Oh, it's you, Chips!" cried the lad, in a tone full of relief.

"Winks it is," was the reply; "but the skipper said I warn't to let anybody pass without he said Sponson."

"Sponson," cried Fitz, laughing.

"Ah, you know now," growled the carpenter, "because I telled you; but it don't seem right somehow. But you aren't enemies, of course."

"Not much," said Poole. "Well, how are you getting on, Chips?"

"Oh, tidy, sir, tidy; only it's raither dull work, and precious damp. A bit wearisome like with nothing to do but chew. Thought when I heard you that there was going to be something to warm one up a bit. Wonderful how chilly it gets before the sun's up. I should just like to have a bit of timber here, and my saw."

"To let the enemy know exactly where we are?"

"Ah, of course; that wouldn't do. But I always feel when I haven't got another job on the way that it's a good thing to do to cut up a bit of timber into boards."

"Why?" asked Fitz, more for the sake of speaking than from any desire to know.

"Plaisters, my lad."

"Plaisters?"

"Ay; for sore hulls. A bit of thin board's always handy off a coast where there's rocks, and there's many a time when, if the carpenter had had plenty of sticking-plaister for a vessel's skin, a good ship could have been saved from going down. Nice place this. What a spot it would have been if it had been an island and the schooner had been wrecked!"

"What do you want the schooner wrecked for?" cried Poole.

"Me, sir? I don't want the schooner wrecked. I only said if it had been, and because you young gents was talking the other day about being on a desolate island to play Robinson Crusoe for a bit."

"Oh yes, I remember," said Fitz.

"So do I, sir. It set me thinking about that chap a good deal. Some men do get chances in life. Just think of him! Why, that fellow had everything a chap could wish for. Aren't talking too loud, are we, Mr Poole?"

"Oh no. No one could hear us whispering like this."

"That's right. I am glad you young gents come, for it was getting very unked and queer all alone. Quite cheers a fellow up. Set down, both on you."

"Thanks, no," said Fitz; "the ground's too wet."

"Nay, I don't mean on the ground. Feel just behind you. There aren't a arm-chair, but a big bit of timber as has been cut down.—There, that's better. May as well make one's miserable life happy, and I don't suppose we shall have anybody sneaking round now.—Ah, yes, that there Robinson Crusoe did have a fine time of it. Everything his own, including a ship safely docked ashore full of stores, and nothing to do but break her up and sort the bits. And there he'd got all the timbers, keel-knees, planks, tree-nails, ropes, spars and yards, and plenty of sheet-metal, I'll be bound, for copper bottoming. Why, with plenty of time on his hands, he might have built anything, from a yawl to a schooner. But he didn't seem to me to shine much in naval architecter. Why, at first he hadn't a soul much above a raft."

"It was very useful, though," said Fitz.

"Nay; more trouble, sir, than it was worth. Better have built himself some kind of a boat at once. Look at his raft! Always a-sinking, or fouling, or shooting off its cargo, or trying to navigate itself. I don't believe in rafts. They're no use unless you want to use one to get washed ashore. For my part—Pst!"

The boys sprang up at the man's whispered signal, Fitz the more actively from the fact that the carpenter's horny hand had suddenly gripped his knee so forcibly that he had hard work to restrain a cry of pain.

"Somebody coming," whispered Poole, quite unnecessarily, for a loud rustling through the bushes was announcing the approach of the expected enemy.

"Stand by!" roared the carpenter, and his rifle flashed a line of light through the darkness as he fired in the direction of the sounds. "Now, my lads," he whispered, "double back into the ship."

As the words passed his lips a voice from out of the darkness shouted in broken English, and with a very Spanish accent—

"Don't fire! Friends! Friends! Friends!"

The words checked the retreat on the hacienda, but they did not clear away the watch's doubts.

"Yes," growled the carpenter, "so you says, but it's too dark to see your faces." Then aloud, "Who are you? Give the word."

"Friends!" was shouted again.

"Well! Where's the word?—He don't say Sponson, Mr Poole," added the carpenter, in a whisper.

"Captain Reed! Captain Reed!" cried the same voice, from where all was perfectly still now, for the sounds of the advance had ceased.

"Who wants Captain Reed?" shouted Poole.

"Ah, yes, I know you," came excitedly. "Tell your father Don Ramon is here with his men."



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

STRANGE DOINGS.

All doubts as to the character of the new-comers were chased away by the coming up of the skipper to welcome the Don, who had nothing but bad news to communicate.

He had passed the night in full retreat with the remnant of his followers before the forces of the rival President.

"Everything has gone wrong," he said. "I have lost heavily, and thought that I should never have been able to join my friends. What about the hacienda? Have you done anything for its defence?"

"The best we could," replied the skipper. "I suppose you know that the enemy had been here, that there had been a fight, and that they had wrecked the place."

"I? No!" cried the Don, in a voice full of despair. "I sent a party of my friends here to meet you, and this was the rendezvous. Don't tell me that they have been attacked and beaten."

"I have as good as told you that," said the skipper dryly.

"Ah-h-h!" panted the Don.

"We have put the place in as good a state of defence as there was time for, but we have not seen a soul."

"It is terrible," groaned the Don. "My poor friends! prisoners, or driven off! But you! You have your brave men."

"I have about half my crew here, sir," said the skipper sternly; "but we haven't come to fight, only to bring what you know."

"Ah! The guns, the ammunition, the store of rifles!" cried the Don joyously. "Magnificent! Oh, you brave Englishmen! And you have them landed safe?"

"No," replied the skipper, as the middy's ears literally tingled at all he heard. "How could I land guns up here? And what could you do with them in these pathless tracts? Where are your horses and mules, even if there were roads?"

"True, true, true!" groaned the Don. "Fortune is against me now. But," he added sharply, "the rifles—cartridges?"

"Ah, as many of them as you like," cried the skipper, and Fitz Burnett's sense of duty began to awaken once again as he seemed in some undefined way to be getting hopelessly mixed up with people against whom it was his duty to war.

"Excellent; and you have them in the hacienda?"

"No, no; aboard my vessel."

"But where is this vessel? You could not get her up the river?"

"No; she is lying off the mouth. I came up here in a boat to meet you and get your instructions, after, as you know, being checked at San Cristobal and Velova, where your emissaries brought your despatches."

"Brave, true fellows! But the gunboat! Were you seen?"

"Seen? Yes, and nearly taken. I only escaped by the skin of my teeth."

"You were too clever," cried the Don enthusiastically. "But you should have sunk that gunboat. It would have meant life and success to me. Why did not you send her to the bottom?"

"Well," said the skipper quietly, "first, because I am not at war, and second, because she would have sent me to the bottom if I had tried."

"No, no," cried the Don enthusiastically. "You English are too clever and too brave. The captain of that gunboat is a fool. You could easily have done this thing. But you have the guns you brought all safe aboard?"

"Yes."

"And you have some of your brave men with you?"

"Yes; more than half my crew."

"Then I am saved, for you will fight upon my side, and every one of your brave Englishmen is worth a hundred of the miserable three parts Indian rabble bravos and cut-throats who follow Villarayo's flag."

"Well, I didn't come here to fight, Don Ramon, and I have no right to strengthen your force," said the skipper sternly. "My duty is to land the munitions of war consigned to you; and that duty I shall do."

"But your men! They are armed?"

"Oh yes. Every one has his rifle and revolver, and knows how to use them."

"And suppose you are attacked?" said the Don, catching him by the arm.

"Well," said the skipper dryly, "we English have a habit of hitting back if we are tackled, and if anybody interferes with us in what we have to do, I dare say we shall give a pretty good account of ourselves. But at the present moment it seems to me that it's my duty to get back to my ship and wait until you show me where I can land my cargo."

"Ah!" said the Don, and as he spoke Fitz had his first announcement that day was near at hand, for he began to dimly see the eager, animated countenance of the Spaniard, and to make out the figures of his well-armed followers clustering round.

"Well, sir, what is to be done?"

"One moment; let me think. It will be safest, perhaps, for you to return to the ship and wait."

"Where?" said the skipper. "That gunboat is hanging about the coast, waiting to capture us if she can."

"Yes, I know; I know. And ashore Villarayo's men are swarming. They have hunted us through the pass all night, and hundreds of them are coming along the coast to cut us off from reaching boats and escaping out to sea."

"Then it's time we were off," said the skipper sharply.

"Too late," replied the Don.

"But my schooner?"

"Will they capture that?" cried the Don.

"Well no," replied the skipper. "There's not much fear, sir; my mate will look out too sharply. No. That will be safe. Don Ramon, if you will take my advice, you and your party had better break up and take to flight for the present, while I will make for any port you like to name and wait your orders, ready for when you can gather your friends together and make another attempt."

"Ah, yes, Captain Reed, you mean well; but where shall I flee? This is my last place of refuge! Here, at my own home! It is best perhaps that you and your men should get back to your ship. I and my friends are pretty well surrounded, and have but two ways open to us. The one is to surrender to Villarayo's merciless cut-throats and die like dogs; the other, to stand at bay behind the walls of my poor home, fight to the last, and die for our wretched country like soldiers and like men. Shake hands, captain, in your brave English way. I and my friends thank you for all you have done, and for making, as you say you have, a little stronghold where we can hold on to the last. It is not your fault, neither is it mine. I could have won the day, and brought happiness and peace to my poor land; but it was not to be. Villarayo has been too strong. That war-vessel with its mighty gun holds us at its mercy. Whoever has that to back him up can rule this place; for any fort that we could raise, even with the guns you have brought, would be crumbled into the dust. There! Farewell! You have your boat. Save yourself and your true, brave men. Quickly, while there is time!"

"Yes, Don Ramon; that must be so," said the skipper, and Fitz Burnett's cheeks began to burn, heated with the spirit within him, as he listened to the speaker's words, almost in disgust, for in his excitement it seemed as cowardly as cruel to leave these brave Spaniards to such a fate.

But then came the change, and his heart gave a leap, and his eyes flashed with pride. He thought no more of his own position in the Royal Navy than he did of the complications that had placed him where he was. The British fighting spirit that has made our nation what it is was strong within him, and his fingers tingled to clasp the skipper's hand, and failing that, he tightly gripped Poole's arm, as the lad's father said—

"No, Don Ramon, I can't leave you in the lurch like this. You and your fellows must come with me."

"No," said the Don proudly; "my place is here," and he drew himself up, looking every inch in the broadening light the soldier and the man.

What more the skipper would have spoken remained unsaid, for crack, crack, crack! sounding smothered amongst the trees, came the reports of the rifles and the replies made by Don Ramon's vedettes as they were driven in, and the skipper's eyes flashed as he placed a little whistle to his lips and blew shrilly, bringing his own men together at the run.

Then taking in the position in one quick glance, he could see a puff of smoke arising from the direction of the river and the boat, telling only too plainly that even had he wished to escape with his men, the way to safety was cut off.

But in those moments no such idea entered his head, any more than it did that of Fitz or Poole. The way was open to the hacienda, and joining hands with the Spanish Don, he began to retire towards the defence he had prepared, and in a very few minutes the house had been reached, and the breastworks manned by the mingled force, consisting of Don Ramon's followers and the schooner's crew, whose shots began to tell in such a way that the enemy's advance was checked, and the bright sun rose above the distant jungle, lighting up the enemy at bay.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE NON-COMBATANT.

"Here, you, Mr Burnett, you are a non-combatant," said the skipper, suddenly coming upon Fitz, after going round the walls of the hacienda with Don Ramon, and seeing that they were manned to the best advantage.

"Oh, yes, sir, I don't want to fight," replied the boy carelessly, and wincing rather with annoyance as he saw the Spaniard give him a peculiar look.

"But you look as if you do, fingering that double-barrelled gun."

"Do you wish me to give it up, sir?"

"No, certainly not. Keep it for your defence. You don't know how you will be situated, and it may keep one of the enemy from attacking you. The sight of it will be enough. You, Poole, keep well in shelter. I don't want you to be running risks."

"I shan't run risks, father, unless you do," replied Poole. "I shall keep close beside you all the time."

"No," said the skipper sharply, "you will stop with Mr Burnett. I leave him in your charge, and—Here! Who's that? Winks, you stop with my son and Mr Burnett there. Be ready to help them if they are in trouble."

"Ay, ay, sir," cried the carpenter, and he drew himself up with his rifle-butt resting on his bare toes.

"There, Fitz," said Poole, grinning with delight; "you can't go back to your old tea-kettle of a gunboat and say that we didn't take care of you."

"Such nonsense!" cried Fitz, flushing. "Any one would think that I was a child. I don't see anything to laugh at," and as he spoke the boy turned sharply from Poole's mirthful face to look searchingly at the carpenter, who was in the act of wiping a smile from his lips.

"Oh, no, sir, I warn't a-laughing," the man said, with his eyes twinkling. "What you see's a hecho like, or what you call a reflection from Mr Poole's physiomahogany. This 'ere's a nice game, aren't it! I'm sorry for those pore chaps aboard, and our two mates in the boat. They'll be missing all the fun."

"Why, Poole," cried Fitz suddenly, "I forgot all about them. I suppose they'll have gone back to the schooner."

"Not they!"

"Then you think the enemy's captured them?"

"That I don't," replied Poole. "They'll have run the boat in, according to orders, in amongst the shade, and be lying there as snug as can be, waiting till they're wanted."

"Well, I don't know so much about that, Mr Poole, sir," put in the carpenter. "Strikes me that as sure as nails don't hold as tight as screws unless they are well clinched, when we have driven off these here varmin, and go to look for them in that 'ere boat we shall find them gone."

"What do you mean?" cried Poole.

"Muskeeters will have eaten them up. They are just awful under the bushes and among the trees."

"Look there," said Fitz, interrupting the conversation. "Seem to be more coming on."

"That's just what I was thinking, Mr Burnett, sir. Reinforcement, don't you call it? My! How wild our lads will be, 'specially old Butters, when I come to tell 'em all about it. Makes me feel like being on board a man-o'-war again, all the more so for having a young officer at my elber."

"Don't you be insolent," said Fitz.

"Well!" cried the carpenter. "I say, Mr Poole, sir, I call that 'ard. I didn't mean cheek, sir, really."

"All right, Chips, I believe you," said Fitz excitedly. "Look, Poole; they're getting well round us. Look how they are swarming over yonder."

"Yes, it means the attack," replied Poole coolly.

"Yes," cried Fitz. "Oughtn't we to begin, and not let them get all the best places? There's nothing like getting first blow."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Poole, who did not seem in the slightest degree impressed by the serious nature of their position. "You're not a player, you know. This is our game."

Fitz reddened, and turned away with an impatient gesture, so that he did not see the carpenter give Poole a peculiar wink and his leg a silent slap, indicative of his enjoyment.

Every one's attention was fully taken up the next moment, for it was evident from the movements on the enemy's part that they were being divided into three bodies, each under a couple of leaders, who were getting their ragged, half Indian-looking followers into something like military form, prior to bringing them on to the attack in a rush.

Fitz watched all this from behind one of the breastworks he had seen put up by the carpenter, who was going about testing the nailing of the boards, and as he did so giving Don Ramon's followers a friendly nod from time to time, as much as to say, Only seeing as it had got a good hold, mate,—and then, once more forgetting Poole's reminder, the boy said excitedly—

"Well, I don't think much of Don Villarayo's tactics. He's exposing his men so that we might shoot half of them down before he got them up to the astack."

"Oh, they're no soldiers, nor sailors neither," replied Poole. "It's a sort of bounce. He thinks he's going to frighten us out of the place; and we are not going to be frightened, eh, Chips?"

"We are not, Mr Poole, sir; I'll answer for that. But I don't know how Mr Ramon's chaps will handle their tools."

"I should say well," cried Fitz, still warming up with the excitement, and speaking frankly and honestly. "They'll take the example of you old men-of-war's men, and fight like fun."

"Thankye, sir," said the carpenter, brightening up. "Hear him, Mr Poole? I call that handsome. That's your sort, sir! There's nothing like having one of your officers to give you a good word of encouragement before you start, and make the sawdust and shavings fly."

Just at that minute Don Ramon, who had been hurrying from side to side encouraging his followers, uttered a warning shout which was echoed by an order from the skipper to his men not to waste a single cartridge, and to aim low.

"Bring 'em down, my lads," he said. "Cripple 'em. We don't want to kill."

He had hardly spoken when the nearest body of the enemy uttered a wild yell, which was taken up by the others, and all advanced clear of the bushes at a run, firing wildly and without stopping to re-load, dashing on, long knife in hand.

But before they had accomplished half the distance, each party was met by a ragged volley from Don Ramon's men, whose instructions had been carefully carried out.

This staggered the enemy for the moment, but they came on, leaping over or avoiding their wounded comrades, and gaining confidence at the silence within the hacienda, they yelled again. So far not one of the Englishmen had fired a shot, but now at a word from the skipper, a slow, steady rifle fire began, with every shot carefully aimed, and seeming to tell, so that ere they got close up to the walls of the hacienda, nearly a score had dropped, the skipper having used his rifle and then stood with the barrel of his revolver resting on the edge of a plank and picking off man after man.

In the brief space of time occupied by the advance the enemy had had little time to think, but suddenly the fighting madness died out of one of the rough-looking bravos as he saw a companion at his side throw up his arms just in front of one of the windows and fall backwards. That started the panic, for the man turned with starting eyes, uttered a yell of dismay, and dashed back.

"Look at that," growled the carpenter. "Just like sheep. One goes for the gap in the hedge, and all the rest will follow. Ah, you may shout, old chap—Don whatever your name is. You'll have to holloa louder than that to stop 'em now."

For the whole of the attacking body was in retreat, racing for the shelter of the trees in a disorderly crowd whose paces were hastened by Don Ramon's men, now re-loaded, sending another ragged volley in their rear.

Their action was very different from that of the schooner's men, who contented themselves with re-loading and breaking out under the leadership of Winks into a hearty British cheer, in which Don Ramon's men now joined.

"Well," said Poole, taking out his pocket-handkerchief and carefully wiping the lock of his rifle, "what do you think of that?"

"Oh," cried Fitz excitedly, "I wouldn't have missed it for—eh? I don't know, though," he added, after breaking off short, his eyes having lit upon the fallen men who were crawling back into shelter. "It is very horrid, though, all the same."

"Yes," said Poole; "but we didn't ask them to come, and it would have been twenty times as horrid if we hadn't stood fast and they had got in here with those long knives."

Fitz looked at him fixedly.

"Think they'd have used them if they had got the day?"

"Think they'd have used them!" cried Poole scornfully. "Why, if they had been pure Spaniards I believe they would in the excitement; but fellows like those, nearly all of Indian blood, if they had got the upper hand, wounded or sound I don't believe they'd have left a man alive."

"I suppose not," said Fitz; "but it is very horrid, all the same. Where's your father? Oughtn't we to go and see to the wounded men?"

"We shall have to leave that to the enemy," replied Poole. "If we went out they'd begin firing from under cover. But here, I say—Here, you Chips, go and ask my governor whether we ought to do anything about those wounded men?"

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the carpenter; "but I know what he'll say."

"What?" said Fitz sharply.

"Same as Mr Poole did, sir, for sartin," and the man trotted away.

"You sent him off because you wanted to speak to me. What is it? Is there fresh danger?"

"Oh no; they'll think twice before they come again. But, I say, what have you been about?"

"Been—about? What do you mean?"

"Look at that gun! Why, Fitz Burnett, you've been firing too!"

The boy's jaw dropped, and he stared at the speaker, then at the lock of the double fowling-piece, and then back, before raising the cocks, opening the blackened breech, and withdrawing a couple of empty cartridges.

"I didn't know," he said softly. "Had it been fired before?"

"It's kept warm a long time if it had," said Poole, with his face wrinkling up with mirth. "Do you call this being a non-combatant?"

"Oh, but surely—" began Fitz. "I couldn't have fired without knowing, and—" He paused.

"It seems that you could," cried Poole mirthfully. "You've popped off two cartridges, for certain. Have you used any more?"

"Oh no! I am certain, quite certain; but I am afraid—in the excitement—hardly knowing what I was about—I must have done as the others did."

"Yes, and you said you didn't mean to fight. I say, nice behaviour this for an officer in your position. How many anti-revolutionists do you think you've killed?"

"Oh, Poole Reed, for goodness' sake don't say you think I've killed either of these poor wretches?"

"Any of these poor wretches," corrected Poole gravely, and looking as solemn as he could. Then reading his companion's horror in his face, he continued cheerily, "Nonsense, old chap! You couldn't have killed anybody with those cartridges of swan-shot unless they were close at hand."

"Ah!" gasped Fitz. "And I don't really think—"

"Oh, but you did. It was in the excitement. Every one about you was firing, and you did the same. It would have been rather curious if you had not. Oh, here's my governor coming along with Chips."

"I say," began Fitz excitedly.

"All right; I wasn't going to; but slip in two more cartridges and close the breech."

This was quickly done, and the skipper came up, talking to the carpenter the while.

"Yes, my lad," he was saying, "I'd give something if you had a hammer and a bag of spikes to strengthen all the wood-work here.—Well, Poole," he continued, "Don Ramon is in ecstasies. He says this is his first success, and I believe that if I were not here he'd go round and embrace all the lads.—But about those poor wretches lying out there. I'm not an unfeeling brute, my lads," he continued, taking in Fitz with a glance the while, "but all I can do I have done."

"But there are those two men moving out there, sir, that you can't have seen," cried Fitz imploringly, "and it seems so horrid—"

"Yes, my lad; war is horrid," said the skipper. "I saw them when they first went down, and"—he added to himself—"I am afraid I was answerable for one. But, as I was saying, I have done all I could, and that is, insisted upon Don Ramon ordering his men to leave them alone and not fire at every poor wretch who shows a sign of life."

"But," began Fitz, "Poole and I wouldn't mind going out and carrying them under shelter, one at a time."

"No, my lad," said the skipper, smiling sadly, "I know you would not; but I should, and very much indeed. You have both got mothers, and what would they say to me for letting two brave lads go to certain death?"

"Oh, but surely, sir," cried Fitz, "the enemy would not—"

"Those worthy of the name of enemy, my boy, certainly would not; but those fighting against us are most of them the bloodthirsty scum of a half-savage tropical city, let loose for a riot of murder, plunder, and destruction. Why, my dear boy, the moment you and Poole got outside the shelter of these walls, a hundred rifles would be aimed at you, with their owners burning to take revenge for the little defeat they have just now suffered."

"Are you sure you are right, Captain Reed?"

"Quite, my lad; as sure as I am that it is not all ill that we have done this morning, for San Cristobal and Velova will both be the better for the absence of some of those who are lying dead out there."

He stood gazing out between two boards for some few minutes, before turning back, and glancing round the room he said a few words to the English defenders.

"Splendid, my lads," he said. "Nothing could have been cooler and better. We want no hurry at a time like this."

"Think they'll come again, father?" asked Poole.

"Sure to, my lad, and we shall drive them back again. After that, this Don Villarayo will have his work cut out to get them to come up again, and I don't believe he will succeed."

"Will they retreat then, sir?" asked Fitz.

The skipper smiled.

"I should like to give you a more encouraging reply," he said, "but—Oh, here's Don Ramon. Let's hear what he says."

"Ah, my friend," cried the Don, coming up to grasp the speaker's hands effusively. "And you too, my brave lads, as you English people say. It has been magnificent," and as he shook the boys' hands in turn, Fitz flushed vividly, feeling guilty in the extreme. "Oh, it has been magnificent—grand! Captain Reed, if I can only persuade you to join hands with me here with your men, and make me succeed, I would make you Admiral of my Fleet. Ah, yes, you smile. I know that it would only be a fleet of one, and not that till the gunboat was taken and become my own, but I would not be long before I made it two, and I would work until I made our republic one of which you would be proud."

"Don't let's talk about this, sir," said the skipper quietly, "until we have gained the day. Do you think that the enemy will come on again?"

"The wretches, yes! But Villarayo—the coward!—will keep watching from the rear. He seems to lead a charmed life."

"There, my lads; you hear. But we shall drive them back again, President?"

Don Ramon's eyes flashed at the compliment, and then he shrugged his shoulders and said sadly—

"President! Not yet, my brave captain. There is much yet to do, and fate has been bearing very hard upon me lately."

"It has, sir. But about the enemy; you think they will come on again?"

"Yes, for certain—and go back again like beaten curs. You and your men have done wonders here in strengthening this place."

Poole drove his elbow into the ribs of Chips, and winked at Fitz, who could hardly contain his countenance at the carpenter's peculiar looks, for the big rough sailor seemed as bashful as a girl, and nodded and gesticulated at the lads in turn, while the next moment he looked as if about to bolt, for the skipper suddenly clapped him on the shoulder and exclaimed as he turned him round—

"You must thank this man, President, not me, for he was my engineer-in-chief. Weren't you, Chips?"

"Ah, my friend," cried the Spaniard, "some day, when I get my own, believe me that I will pay you for all that you have done."

"Oh, it's all right, sir. Don't you worry about that. 'Course you see it warn't much of a job."

He took off his straw hat and wiped the great drops from his sun-browned brow with the back of his hand.

"You see, sir, it was like this 'ere. The skipper he puts me on the job, and 'Chips,' he says, 'make the best of it you can by way of offence.' 'Niver another word, sir,' and off he goes, and here was I when the young gents come up, all of a wax; warn't I, Mr Poole, sir? I put it to you, sir. 'Look here, sir,' I says, 'the skipper's put me on this 'ere job with my kit of tools left aboard the schooner, and not a bit of stuff.' Didn't I, sir? Speak out straight, sir. I only asks for the truth."

"You did, Chips," said Poole solemnly, and setting his teeth as he spoke; "didn't he, Burnett?"

"Oh yes," replied the middy, "he did say something like that," and then as he caught Poole's eye he had to turn his back, looking out through the slit in the window and biting his tongue hard the while, while he heard the carpenter maunder on to the President something more about not having a bit of stuff, and every nail to straighten before he could drive it in again.

"Yes, that's right. Winks," said the skipper, bringing the speech to an end, and not before it was time, for the carpenter was beginning to repeat himself again and again. "You did splendidly, and if we had a few hundred feet of battens and boards, we could hold this place for a month.—Well, President," he continued, turning his back on his man, who sighed with relief and whispered to Fitz that that was a good job done, "and after we've driven them back again?"

"Ah! After! Treachery, fire, powder to blow us up! The fighting of cowards. But with your help, my brave, as soon as they are cowering among the trees we must attack in turn."

"No, President," said the skipper, laying his hand upon the other's shoulders; "you are too brave and rash. This is your last stronghold, is it not?"

"Alas, yes!"

"Then you must hold it, sir, and tire the enemy out."

"Yes, yes; you are right. But food—water? What of them?"

"Ah! There we must see what strategy will do. There is the river not far away, and as soon as they grow thirsty, my lads will contrive that we have enough to drink."

"To drink—ah, yes. But the food?"

"Well, perhaps they will contrive that too. Sailors are splendid fellows to forage, sir."

"Yes. If I could only be a President of sailors!" cried the President warmly. "There seems to be nothing that the English sailor cannot do. But can they make powder-cartridges when their own is fired away?"

"Well, I don't say that," said the skipper; "but they know how to save them, and not fire good ammunition to waste; and that's what you must try to teach your men. But look out yonder; while we are talking there is something going on."

Don Ramon looked out keenly, ran into the next room to look out in another direction, and then came back.

"They are coming on again, captain," he said. "It may be an hour yet. But they mean attack, to leave more of their force behind."

"Now is your time, then, sir, to speak to your men. Tell them to use the cartridges as if each was the last he had and his life depended upon sending it home."

"Yes, yes," said the President. "I see; I see. But when my men are fighting and the blood is up they will not think; but we shall see."

Within half-an-hour another and a fiercer attack was made—one more ably sustained and better met too by the defence; for the President's words to his followers went home, the men grasping their position, and though the attack was more prolonged it ended by another panic and a roar of cheers.

"Now, President," said the skipper, "what of the next attack?"

"I don't know," was the reply. "If one is made it will be some treachery with fire; but you see they have retired farther back, and it is all their leaders can do to keep them from breaking up into retreat. Villarayo must be mad, and will be thinking how to scheme my downfall to the end. Captain, my heart is sick. What of the coming night? What of the darkness which will shroud them like a cloak?"

"It will not be dark for a couple of hours yet," replied the skipper. "We can rest now, and refresh our men. After that we must plant our outposts with those whom we can trust the most. They will warn us of any attack, and if one is made—well, we shall be stronger than we were this morning."

"Stronger! What do you mean? Do you see coming help?" replied Don Ramon.

"No, sir. We must help ourselves. But our men are more confident in their strength, while the enemy is weakened by defeat."

The hours went on and the darkness fell, with the men rested and refreshed; every avenue by which danger could advance was carefully commanded, and before half-an-hour of full darkness had passed one of the vedettes formed by Winks and Poole, with Fitz to keep him company, was alarmed by the approach of a stealthy figure, upon whom Winks pounced like a cat upon a mouse, and dragged him towards the hacienda, to be met directly after by the skipper, the prisoner protesting almost in a whisper that he was a friend, but covered by the barrel of a revolver the while.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

A CUNNING SCHEME.

"Yes," said the skipper sternly, speaking in very fair Spanish, "you may say you are a friend, but a friend doesn't come crawling into a camp like a serpent. It seems to me you are a spy; and do you know what is the fate of a spy at a time like this?"

"Yes, yes, senor; a spy would be shot."

"Right—to save other people's lives. Where were you going?"

"I was coming here, senor, to the hacienda."

"So I supposed; but what for?"

The man seemed to hesitate, and tried to speak, but no words would come, for he was either suffering from agitation, exhaustion, or utter fear, and Fitz Burnett's hands turned wet and cold at the thought of the stern judgment that would be passed upon the trembling wretch if he could not prove his words.

"Do you hear what I say?" said the skipper, in a stern, fierce voice.

"Yes, yes, senor," gasped the man at last, just when the two lads had grasped hands, each to deliver a speaking pressure to the other.

"Tell me, then. Why were you coming here?"

"Because I believed that Don Ramon was here."

"Do you know Don Ramon?"

"Yes, senor; he is an old friend."

"We can soon prove that," said the skipper. "Here, Poole, the Don is lying down asleep, utterly worn out, but he must be awakened to see his friend," he added meaningly.

Poole gripped Fitz's hand tightly, as if to say, Come with me; and the two lads hurried off to where the Don was lying asleep, guarded by four of his men, under the shelter of a shed.

"I hope to goodness," whispered Poole, "that the poor fellow's told the truth."

"Your father wouldn't have him shot if he had not, surely?"

Poole was silent for a few moments.

"I don't know," he said evasively.—"Yes, friends," he said, in answer to a challenge in Spanish, "I want to speak to Don Ramon."

"He is asleep, senor, and must not be awakened," was the reply.

"I know he is asleep," said Poole sharply and authoritatively, "and he must be awakened. It is a case of life or death."

The awakening was already performed, for at the sound of the lad's half-angry voice the man he sought sprang up, revolver in hand, ready for action.

"Yes?" he said. "Are they coming on?"

"No," replied Poole. "We have taken a spy, as we think, but he professes to know you, sir, and asks to see you at once."

"I'll come," said the Don; and then turning to the lads with a smile: "Friends are very scarce; I mustn't slight this one."

In another minute he was where the prisoner was anxiously awaiting his coming, ready to utter a sigh of relief as the Don caught him in his arms with—

"Miguel, my friend! What brings you here?"

"I knew you were in danger," was the reply.

"And you came to tell me—"

"Yes, and it was a risky task. What with your enemies and your friends," he added meaningly, "I wonder that I am alive."

"Forgive me!" cried Don Ramon. "I had been looking upon you as one who had forsaken me in my distress. But yes, you are right; I am in danger, but still alive. Surely you have no worse news?"

"Yes, the worst."

"Well, tell me; I can bear anything now."

"You have beaten Villarayo off twice to-day."

"Yes, with the help of my friends," said the Don, turning in a courtly way towards the English party. "And you have come to warn me that they are just going to make another attack?"

"They are, but not yet. I have been with them at the risk of my life, and I know that the men were so horribly discouraged by their losses that they refused to attack again, and threatened to break up and return to their homes; but at last Villarayo has prevailed upon them to stay, and messengers went hours ago along the passes to Velova."

"Yes; what for?"

"With instructions that every fighting man from the fort and the earthworks facing the sea, is to be withdrawn, and come through the mountains to Villarayo's help. They will be here some time to-morrow, and you must be overwhelmed, or flee at once."

"It is impossible," said Ramon coldly. "We are shut in here, and my sun must rise or set to-morrow. This is my last stand."

"But your wife—your children! Think of them."

"I have thought of nothing else, waking and sleeping," said the Don coldly. "But my wife would not look upon me if I forsook my country, and my children shall not live with the knowledge that Ramon's is a coward's name."

"Is this your decision?" said the messenger of bad tidings.

"Yes. Captain Reed, my brave true friend, look at him. He is half-dead with hunger and exhaustion. Can you give him water and food?"

"He shall share what we have, sir, and I am sorry that we cannot give him better fare than biscuit and water; but the rations we brought with us were small, and they are nearly at an end. Don Miguel, I ask your pardon for me and mine. You will forgive us our rough treatment? We were fighting for your friend."

"I know," said the visitor faintly, and he took and grasped the captain's hand.

A few minutes later he was sharing Don Ramon's shelter, and struggling hard to recoup nature with the broken biscuit he was soaking in a pannikin of water, while Fitz and his companions returned to their old station to resume the watch.

They sat for some time thinking, for nobody seemed disposed to talk, even the carpenter, the most conversational of the trio, seeming to prefer the society of the piece of dirty-looking black tobacco which he kept within his teeth; but the silence became so irksome, for somehow the firing seemed to have driven every wild creature to a distance, that Fitz broke it at last.

"I don't know when I felt so nervous," he whispered. "I felt sure that something that would have seemed far more horrible than the fight was about to occur."

"What, my father ordering that poor fellow to be shot? Yes, it would have been horrible indeed."

"But would the skipper have ordered him to be shot, Mr Poole, sir?" said Winks thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid so, Chips."

"Humph! Don't seem like him. He bullies us chaps pretty sharp sometimes, and threatens, and sometimes the words he says don't smell of violets, nor look like precious stones; but I can't see him having a chap shot because he was a spy. Why, it'd be like having an execution without a judge."

"Yes, very horrible," said Fitz, "but it's time of war; as in the Duke of Wellington's time,—martial law."

"Who's him, sir? You mean Blucher—him as got into trouble over the Army boots?"

"No, no," said Poole. "Mr Burnett means the law that is used in fighting times when a Commander-in-chief acts as judge."

"Oh! All right, sir. But it sounds a bit harbitrary, as they calls it in the newspapers. I should have thought a hundred dozen would have been punishment enough, without putting a stinguisher on a man right out. I suppose it's all right, but I wouldn't have given it to him so hot as that. Well, I'm glad he come, because now we know what we've got to expect to-morrow. Do you know what I should like if I could have three wishes same as you reads of in the little story-books?"

"Camel to come up now with one of his hot steak-and-kidney puddings boiled in a basin?"

"Tlat!" ejaculated the carpenter, with a smack of the lips. "And the inions a-smelling looshus a hundred yards away. Nay, it warn't that."

"A carpenter's tools?" said Fitz.

"Nay, but you ain't far off, Mr Burnett. What I was wishing for was one of them barge-loads of neatly-cut timber as you see piled upon the Mersey, run right up this 'ere little river ready for all our chaps to unload. My word! Talk about a fortification! Why, I'd make a sixtification of it with them timbers, and so quickly that to-morrow when the enemy come they should find all our Spaniels sitting behind the little loop-holes like a row of monkeys cracking nuts, a-laughing and chaffing the enemy, and telling of them to come on."

"Oh, bother!" said Poole. "Don't talk so much. It's enough to tempt the enemy to sneak up and begin potting at us. I know what I should like to do." And he relapsed into silence.

"Well, what?" said Fitz, when he was tired of waiting.

"Get all the men together and make a sally."

"A what?" said the carpenter. "What for? Blest if ever I heard of such a dodge as that before. What'd be the good of a she-male at a time like this? I could make a guy, sir, if that would suit you."

"Will you hold your tongue, you chattering old glue-pot!"

"All right, sir! Go it! Stick it on thick! Glue-pot, eh? What will you call me next? But what would be the good of a Sally?"

"Sally! To issue forth all together, stupid, and surprise the enemy in their camp."

"Oh! Well, I suppose they would be surprised to have us drop upon them all at once; but if they heard us coming we should be surprised. No, sir; let them come to us, for they're about ten to one. We are safest where we are."

"Yes; Chips is right," said Fitz. "It would be very dangerous unless we could get them on the run. I wouldn't do that."

"What would you do, then?" said Poole.

"Well," said Fitz, "you told me I was not a player, and that it was your game."

"Yes, but that was before you began peppering the beggars with that double gun."

"Now, that's too bad," cried Fitz petulantly. "There, I've done now."

"No, you haven't. You have got something on your mind, and if it's a dodge to help us all out of this mess, you are not the fellow to keep it back. So come; out with it."

"Well, I'll tell you what I've been thinking," said Fitz, "almost ever since I heard what that Mr Miguel said about the reinforcements coming from Velova."

"What, to crush us up?" said Poole. "Enough to make any one think! But what about it?"

"Why, the fort and earthworks will be emptied and all the fighting men on the way to-morrow to come and fight us here."

"Of course, and they'll be here some time to-morrow afternoon, and if they don't beat us they will be going back with sore heads; but I am afraid that those of us who are left will be going back as prisoners. Is that what you meant?"

"No," said Fitz, and without heeding a faint rustling sound such as might have been made by some wild creature, or an enemy stealing up to listen to their words, he went on: "I was thinking that this is what we ought to do—I mean your father and the Don—steal off at once without making a sound, all of us, English and Spaniards too, down to that timber-wharf."

"But suppose the enemy have got scouts out there?"

"I don't believe they have. After that last thrashing they drew off ever so far, and that President is doing nothing but wait for the coming of his reinforcements."

"That sounds right, Mr Poole, sir," said the carpenter.

"Well, it's likely," said Poole, and the faint rustling went on unheard. "But what then?"

"Whistle up the boat. The men would know your signal."

"Yes?"

"Load her up till the water's above the streak, and let her drop down with the stream. I noticed that it ran pretty fast. Land the men at the mouth; leave them to signal for the schooner to come within reach— they could do that with the lantern, or a bit of fire on the shore, if they didn't hear the captain's pipe—and while they are doing that, four men with oars row back as hard as ever they could go, to fetch another boat-load."

"Boat-load?" said Poole. "Why, it would take about four journeys, if not more."

"Very likely," said Fitz. "But there would be hours to do it in."

"And what then?"

"Get everybody on board the schooner and make sail for the north. Get into Velova Bay, and you could take the town with ease."

"And what about the gunboat?" said Poole.

"Ah! That's the awkward point in my plan. But the gunboat is not obliged to be there, and even if she were you could take the town if you managed to get there in the dark; and once you've got the town you could hold it, even if she knocked the fort to pieces."

"Hum!" grunted the carpenter.

"It'd be a tight fit getting everybody here on board our schooner."

"Nonsense!" said Fitz. "I could get a hundred men on board easily; and besides, we should all be saved."

"And besides, we should all be saved," said Poole, half aloud. "Yes, that's true. It does seem possible, after all, for there would be no defenders hardly left at Velova, and we could fit up a defence of some kind to keep off the enemy when they found we had gone and old Villarayo came raging back; and that wouldn't be for another two days. Yes, there's something in it, if we could dodge the gunboat again."

"Humph!" grunted the carpenter once more. "No; there's a hole in your saucepan, and all the soup is tumbling out. The enemy is bound to have some fellows on the watch, and likely enough not a hundred yards from here, and they would soon find out that we were evacuating the place, come and take us at a disadvantage, and perhaps shoot the poor fellows crowded up in the boat. Oh no, my lad; it won't do at all."

"Humph!" grunted the carpenter again.

"Don't you be in such a hurry, Mr Son-of-the-skipper," said Fitz. "I'd thought of that, and I should keep the enemy from coming on."

"How?" said Poole, rather excitedly now.

"Light three or four watch-fires—quite little ones—and put up a stick or two amongst the bushes with blankets on them and the Spaniards' sombrero hats. They'd look at a distance like men keeping the fire, and we could make these fires so that they would glow till daylight and go on smoking then; and as long as smoke was rising from these fires, I believe not one of the enemy would come near until the reinforcements arrived. And by that time, if all went well, we should be off Velova Bay."

"Humph!" grunted the carpenter again.

"It won't do, Burnett," said Poole; "it's too risky. There's nothing in it."

"Humph!" grunted the carpenter once more.

"And hark at that! You've set old Chips off snoring with your plot."

"That he aren't!" growled the carpenter. "I've heared every precious word. It's fine, Mr Poole, sir—fine! There's only one thing wanted to put it right, and that's them Sallies sitting round the fire. I wouldn't have Sallies. I'd have guys. I could knock you up half-a-dozen with crossed bamboos, each on 'em looking like tatter-doolies looking after crows with a gun. I says the plan would do."

"And so do I, carpenter," said the skipper, in his quick short tones as he stepped out from among the trees, making the three start to their feet.

"And I, my friend," cried Don Ramon excitedly catching the middy by the hand.

"Poole, my lad," continued the skipper, "get one of the other men and go cautiously down to the landing-place with every care, and if you reach it unhindered, whistle up the boat at once. Carpenter, get others to help you, and start fires as quickly as you can. Very small. The others can do that, while you contrive your rough effigies.—Now, Don Ramon, you'll take the covering of our efforts with your men while mine work. Remember, it is for our lives, and our only chance."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

FITZ SHOWS PEPPER.

"Here, Mr Burnett!" came out of the darkness, and Fitz stopped short. "Yes, sir."

"Do you know that you are a great nuisance?"

It was invisible, but Fitz flushed and felt, after his fashion, peppery.

"I don't understand you, sir," he said hotly.

"I spoke plainly, my lad. You are always in my way, and you never were more so than at this minute."

"Then why did you take me prisoner, sir?" said the boy angrily.

"Why, in the name of thunder, did you come and tumble down my hatchway instead of stopping on the gunboat? I didn't ask you to come. Here, you are as bad as having a girl on board, or something made of wax, that mustn't be spoiled. I can't stir without thinking of having to take care of you."

"Oh," cried Fitz angrily. "This is adding insult to injury, sir."

"Well, yes, it don't sound very pleasant, does it, my boy? But you are a young nuisance, you know. I mustn't have you hurt. You see, Poole's my own, and I can do what I like with him; but you—Now then, what were you going to do?"

"I was going with Poole, sir."

"Of course!" cried the skipper angrily. "Just like a middy. I never had anything to do with one before, but I've heard times enough from those who have, that if there's a bit of mischief afloat, the first nose that goes into it is a middy's."

"I don't know what I've done, sir, that you should keep on insulting me like this."

"Insult! Bah! Is it insulting you to stop you from going into the most dangerous bit of to-night's work?"

"Poole's going, sir."

"Yes; to do his duty as my son, in this emergency. But it's not your duty, and you will be in the way. It's very risky, my lad. For aught I know there may be half-a-dozen scouts between here and the landing-place, waiting to shoot down any one who tries to open up communication with the boats."

"I know that, sir."

"And yet you want to go?"

"Yes," said the boy warmly. "You are going to send poor Poole, and I want to share his danger with him. I might help him."

"I am going to send poor Poole? Yes, my boy, because I am obliged. That job has to be done, and I'd sooner trust him than any one here. I can't spare my men, and I can't send one of these Spanish chaps. It won't do to have it muffed. But poor Poole, eh? You seem to have grown mighty fond of him all at once."

"Oh no, I'm not," said the boy haughtily; "but he has been very kind to me, and I'm not ungrateful. I might be able to help him if he gets into danger."

"Oh," said the skipper; "and suppose you get into danger?"

"Oh, then he'd help me, sir, of course. I'm sorry for him. He can't help being a filibuster's son."

"Filibuster, eh? So I'm a filibuster, am I? Upon my word, you're about the most cheeky young gentleman I ever ran against in my life. Well, all right. You must chance it, I suppose."

"Yes, please," said Fitz eagerly.

"Yes, please, eh? Well, keep your eyes well skinned, my lad. You two sharp-eyed youngsters ought to be able to take care of yourselves; but look here, I don't want you to fight. This is our mess, not yours."

"Well, I don't want to fight," said Fitz. "I want to get back on board some English vessel."

"Same here. That's what I want to do: get you on board the schooner. That's an English vessel."

"But not the sort I want, sir."

"Beggars mustn't be choosers, my lad; but there, I've no more time to talk. Just one word, though: I don't want you to fight, but I see you've got my double gun, and I'll just say this. If you see Poole in difficulties with any of those murderous mongrels, nine parts Indian and one part Spaniard, don't you flinch about using it."

"I shouldn't, sir, then."

"All right; then be off."

The skipper turned away, and Poole hurried up.

"What's my governor been saying to you?"

"Bullied me for being here," replied Fitz; "but he said that I might go with you."

"He did!"

"Yes, and gave me orders to shoot all the niggers who attacked you."

"Hooray! Then come on."

The two lads hurried off together through the darkness, leaving the hacienda and its defenders behind as they began to retrace their steps along the rough track leading to the corduroy road.

"Here, we mustn't talk," whispered Poole. "There's pretty nearly sure to be a post of the enemy somewhere in front. We can't have such luck as to get down there to the river without something in our way. I'll go on first."

"That you don't," said Fitz. "If any one goes first I will."

"Now, no nonsense!" cried Poole angrily. "I'm boss of this job, and if you don't do as I tell you I'll leave you behind."

"I've got your father's orders to come and take care of you," retorted Fitz; "and if you come any of your bounce and cheek now there'll be a row, and it will end in my punching your head."

"Poof! Cock-a-doodle-do!" whispered Poole. "There: come on! Let's walk side by side. I'll settle all that with you when the work is done. I say, keep your eyes skinned, and both ears wide open. I'll look to the right, you look to the left. We'll get on that wooden road and follow it down to the wharf."

"Pretty wharf it is! I say, I hope those poor fellows haven't been murdered."

"Oh, don't talk like that. They've got the boat, and let's hope they're safe. But it's been hard lines for them, waiting there all this time, with nothing to do but nibble their biscuits and kill flies.—Pst!"

Fitz imitated his companion's act and stopped short, his eyes striving hard to pierce the gloom in front; but for nearly a minute both stood on the strain.

"Nothing," said Poole. "Come on. It was some little animal escaping through the bushes; but make ready."

The clicking of the locks of both pieces sounded painfully loud in the silence as they went cautiously on, stopping again and again to listen, each wishing they could hear some sound to relieve the painful tension from which they suffered; but everything living seemed to have been scared away, and they kept on without interruption, while the river instead of getting nearer seemed to grow farther off, till at last Poole slipped on one of the muddy logs which formed the road, and nearly went headlong, but was saved by his companion, who in his effort to hold him up, fetched him a sharp rap on the head with the barrel of his gun.

"Thank you," said Poole.

"Oh, I only tried to keep you up," said Fitz, breathing hard.

"I meant for that affectionate crack you fetched me on the head. I say, this arn't sporting, you know."

"What do you mean?" whispered Fitz.

"I mean, don't shoot me so as to fill the bag."

"Don't fool," cried Fitz angrily.

"All right; but don't hit me again like that. It hurts."

"Pish! It was an accident. I am afraid—"

"So am I," said Poole, taking him up sharply; "horribly."

"I mean, that we have got on the wrong road."

"I thought so; but we can't be. There is only this one, if you call it a road, leading straight down to the river—no, not straight; circumbendibus-y."

"No," said Fitz, "it must have branched off, or we should have been at the river long enough ago."

"No, we have come too slowly."

"Where is the river, then?" said Fitz.

Plash! Quenk!

At that moment some kind of waterfowl rose from its lair with a good deal of fluttering of its wings, and a plaintive cry of alarm.

"Ah!" sighed Fitz, with a deep expiration of his breath. "At last!"

"Yes, at last. Mind how you come. The wharf must be just here. Can you make out that bank of mist?"

"Yes; I can see the top of it cut off quite sharply, and with the stars above it. That must be the river, then."

"That's right," said Poole. "Here, look out; we are quite close to the edge of the wharf. I say, what luck! We've got here safely, after all. Ah-h! What are you about?"

"Slipped," said Fitz, with a gasp. "The wood's like ice."

"Precious hot ice. I'm dripping. Do take care. If you go overboard you'll be swept right away, and I'm bothered if I come after you."

"I don't believe you," said Fitz, with a little laugh. "But oh, I say!"

"What's the matter now? Smell crocs?"

"No, no. I was thinking about those poor fellows in the boat. It's so horribly silent. Surely they have escaped."

Poole was silent for a few moments, and it seemed to the middy that he was breathing unusually hard.

"Is anything the matter?" whispered Fitz, at last. "Oh, don't talk like that!" came in an excited whisper.

"Then why don't you give the signal? What is it?"

"I was listening, and fancied I heard some one coming behind us. Face round, and if any one tries to rush us let 'em have it—both barrels. Those big shot of yours may check them, and I'll hold my bullet in reserve."

Fitz made no answer, but breathed harder as he stood ready with his fingers on the triggers.

"Fancy," said Poole at last. "Now then."

"Are you going to shout?"

"No; I've got the dad's pipe," and applying the little silver whistle to his lips he made it give forth one little shrill chirrup, and then waited, while the stillness seemed to Fitz more awful than before, and his heart sank lower with the dread lest the men were dead, the boat gone, and his project completely at an end. Chirrup!

Another what seemed to be a painfully long pause, and then Chirrup! once again.

The pause seemed even longer than before to the listeners, but the interval was short indeed before from out of the mist in front came a low hoarse "What cheer, oh!" followed by a sneeze and a grunt. "Teals?" cried Poole.

"Ay, ay! Two on us," came back. "Shall we pull ashore?"

"Yes; come on."

"Right. That you, Mr Poole?"

"Yes! Look sharp!"

There was a loud rustling, apparently about a hundred yards away, followed by the scraping of an oar over the side of the boat, and then the sound of paddling coming nearer and nearer, till the dimly-seen forms appeared out of the mist, and the boat grated against the side of the rough pier. "How goes it, sir?" said one of the men. "All right so far," replied Poole. "But how is it with you two?"

"Offle, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"Heads so swelled up with skeeters that we can't wear our hats. We've finished the grub, and to-morrow morning we was a-going to toss whether I should eat him or him should eat I."

"No nonsense," said Poole.

"No, sir; there arn't been none," said the speaker, in a low growl. "This 'ere's been the roughest job I was ever on. We'd have given anything to come and jine our mates so as to get a shot. Anybody lost the number of his mess?"

"No," said Poole. "No one even hurt."

"'Cept us, sir, and we've each of us got ten hundred million wounds."

"Wounds?"

"Yes, sir; skeeters. Trunks as big as elephants. They'd have sucked poor Jem here quite dry, only he did as I did, made it up with water, and there was plenty of that.—But you've come to fetch us, haven't you?"

"No; only to set you on the alert."

"On the which, sir? What ship's that?"

"Nonsense!" cried Poole. "We are all coming down to get on board the schooner as quickly as we can."

"And a blessed good thing too," growled the other man. "But you'd better stop where y'are, for this 'ere's an awful place. Anybody might have my job for me."

"Yes," said Poole, "I know it must have been terribly bad, but we are off again directly with the news that you two are all right."

"That we are which, sir?" said the first speaker. "Oh, I say, Mr Poole, sir, don't go and tell the skipper a lie like that."

"No, no; of course I'll tell him about how you have suffered; but we haven't been lying in feather-beds up there. Here, I say, Fitz, don't laugh."

"I couldn't help it," cried Fitz.

"No, sir, you couldn't," said the first man. "We couldn't at first. I laughed at Jem to see him smacking his own face all over, and he laughed at me and said mine looked beastly. And we didn't either of us look nice when the sun rose this morning, not even when we'd had a good wash. But it's all over now, as you are coming down, and the first thing Jem and me's going to do as soon as we gets aboard the schooner is to go and hide our heads in the hold. Say, Jem, old lad, I wonder what Chips will say to you when he sees your mug!"

"Just the same as he will say to you, messmate, about yourn."

"Hush! Don't talk. Get back into hiding again, and be ready to pick up the first load as soon as they come down."

"What of, sir? Prisoners or plunder?"

"Spaniards, my lad. Come, be serious. We are in a queer fix up there, shut in by the enemy. Have you seen anything of them here?"

"Yes; about a couple of dozen ugly-looking beggars, sort of mahogany-brown, come and had a look; but they didn't see us, and went back. It was just afore that first firing began."

"That's right," cried Poole. "Back with you; but it won't be long before some one comes, and then you must drop down to the coast, signal the schooner, land your load, and come back; but keep two men to help you."

"Ay, ay, sir."

"One word; you haven't seen any of the Teals, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, sir. Old Butters rowed up with the dinghy this evening."

"Last evening, mate," growled the other.

"Yes, that's right, messmate. He just had a word with us. Mr Burgess sent him. He wanted news, but of course we had got none, only about the shooting. The bosun said that if the skipper didn't soon come back he was afraid accidents would happen to the schooner—catch fire, or something—for old Burgess was making it so hot for everybody that he was glad to get away in the little boat."

"Off with you!" said Poole, and he and his companion hurried back through the gathering mist.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

WINKS'S SALLYS.

The distance back to the hacienda seemed short enough, and in anticipation of his mission proving successful, the skipper had his first boat's load told off ready for their start.

"Well done! Splendid!" he said to the lads. "Off with you back. Take the command, Poole. Are you going again, Mr Burnett?"

"Yes, sir; of course."

Fitz turned sharply round when he was addressed, from where he was standing with the carpenter, after noting that here and there at a distance a tiny fire was burning, indicating the different posts between them and the enemy, and just before Winks had come hurriedly up to him and given him a nudge.

"I arn't got them set up yet, sir," he whispered, "but I've made four. Not much to look at, but they will be all right. Two crossed sticks, bamboos, blankets, and them Spanish hats. There's two Sallys and two Guys. The Sallys has got the blankets right over the tops with the hats down close. They looks just like old women a little way off.—Going back again, sir?"

"Yes," replied Fitz. "We shan't be very long this time."

"All right, sir. I shall have the traps set by the time you come again. My word! I should like to be there when the Span'ls finds they are nothing but a set of paddies. I should like to hear the words they said. It would be something pretty in bad Spanish, I'll be bound."

"Now, Mr Burnett," cried the skipper sharply, and somehow feeling as if he were one of the schooner's officers, the middy hurried off, helping to guide the party, consisting of Don Ramon's followers all but two, and succeeding in reaching the wharf without an adventure, the boat coming up at once on hearing their approach, and in a very short time loaded gunwale down, gliding off along the swift stream.

"That's one lot," said Poole excitedly, as the stern of the boat disappeared. "Well, we had no orders, but of course we've got to go back for another lot and bring them down. I suppose we shall have them here long before the empty boat returns from the schooner."

"It will be a stiff pull against the stream," said Fitz.

"Yes, but empty, and I made them fully understand that they were to start back after shipping the men and communicating with old Burgess. I think that will turn out all right."

It did, and in due time a second load was despatched to the schooner, forming half the human cargo she would have to bear.

They were anxious times during these journeys in the boat. All was going well, but at any moment the fiction of the watchers by the fires might have been discovered, and the enemy come on to the attack upon a force weakened first by one-fourth, then by half, and later on by three-fourths of its number, the danger increasing at a terrific ratio for those who were left. At last, still keeping manfully to their posts, the last portion—the last quarter of the little force—stood waiting, nearly all English, those of Spanish descent consisting of Don Ramon and his most staunch adherent.

The skipper had urged him to go with the third party, but he had scornfully refused.

"What!" he cried. "Provide for my safety, and leave you brave Englishmen to fight my battle all alone! Bah! You would never be able to call me friend again. But tell me this: why did you not go yourself and leave me to guard the hacienda till the boat came back?—Hah! You say nothing! You cannot. No, I shall stay, and we will escape together, ready to sail round, seize Velova, and meet mine enemies when they return."