Ignacio entered, too. He seemed to have the privilege of going where he chose; the sentries who were guarding that door asked him no questions. It was apparently some sort of a military jail to which they had been taken. Down a long stone corridor they were marched, and then halted in front of a door. The sergeant entered, and Ignacio after him. The rest waited outside. It must have been at least fifteen minutes before anything more occurred. Then the sergeant came out, and ordered the prisoners to enter. Clif, as the officer, entered first, and he found himself facing a tall, military looking Spaniard with a resplendent uniform and an air of authority. Who he was Clif had no idea, but he was evidently in command of the place. He was a dark, savage-looking man, and his brows were drawn down as he frowned upon the prisoners. And Clif was not surprised. "He's had Ignacio to tell him about us," he thought to himself. Ignacio was standing just behind the officer. There was a grin on his face and a look of delight; he rubbed his hands gleefully as he watched what transpired. The Spanish officer glared at his prisoners sternly. Clif's bearing was quiet and dignified. "So you are the officer who commanded the Yankee pigs?" growled the man. "I am an American naval cadet," was the response. The Spaniard said nothing more for a moment, but continued his piercing look. "You put on a bold front," he said at last. "You must have looked differently when you were running away." The remark required no answer, and got none. Clif did not mean to bandy words with the officer; if he wanted to taunt him he was welcome to do so. "We treat our prisoners more politely," he thought, "but I suppose this is the Spanish way." Meanwhile the officer went on. "You will be less impudent later on," he snarled, "when you learn what is in store for you. You've no idea, I presume." "I understood that I was a prisoner of war," was the American's quiet answer. "And I understood that Spain considered itself a civilized nation." The Spaniard laughed softly. "A prisoner of war," he chuckled. "So you really expect to be treated as such--and after what you have done!" "What have I done?" asked Clif. Ignacio's eyes began to dance at that; for the officer turned toward him. "This gentleman," said the officer, "is one of our trusted agents. And I have learned from him of your villainy." Clif was not in the least surprised at that. It was just what he had looked for. "I should be pleased to learn also, if I may, what has this trusted agent told you?" As he said that, he turned toward the grinning Ignacio. But it was the officer who continued speaking. "I suppose you wish to deny everything," said he. "But I assure you it will do not the least good in the world." "I presume not," escaped Clif's lips. The Spaniard frowned angrily, but he went on without a change of tone.