"Keep cool, laddie," he exclaimed. "There's an armed party coming up." A British naval patrol and a picquet of marines, wearing shrapnel helmets, doubled up the street. A sharp word of command and the armed men formed two deep right across the Calle Almeira, motionless as statues. "Order arms... fix bayonets!" The click of steel and the clatter of rifle butts on the asphalt acted like a cold douche upon the hot-headed citizens of San Antonio. The forefront of the crowd retreated. Those in the rear, unable to see what was going on, pressed forward. Yet a strange silence fell upon the crowd. The civil police, seizing their opportunity, hurried their prisoners forward right up to the steel-tipped line of British bluejackets and marines. The officer in charge of the armed party was in a bit of a dilemma. Unable to understand a word, he tried to silence the now vociferous clamour of both prisoners and civil guards. He couldn't grasp the situation, being under the impression that the affair was an anti-British demonstration, while Don Ramon was in such a state of collapse that his fluent command of English failed him utterly. Peter and Cavendish, followed by Mackenzie, went up to the officer, who happened to know the two former. Briefly Corbold explained the situation. "Well, what can I do?" asked the officer in charge of the party. "These fellows aren't our prisoners. I can't take them away from the civil authority." Peter turned to the non-commissioned officer of the Rioguayan police. The man stated that his orders were to take the prisoners to the town gaol for the night. They would be tried and shot before noon to-morrow, he added inconsequently. "It's murder," declared Peter, conferring with the lieutenant of the landing-party. "Look here, can you detail half a dozen men? I'll take all responsibility and get the prisoners on board. After all's said and done, they aren't criminals, merely political prisoners." "Get on with it then," was the reply, "and jolly good luck. Only, remember, I can't make these _opera bouffe_ policemen give up their prisoners." "I'll try, anyway," rejoined Peter. Producing a buff-coloured paper with the Admiralty crest, Peter held it in front of the Rioguayan _caporal_. "Here is your new President's authority that all political suspects under arrest are to be placed in British custody," he said brazenly. The Rioguayan couldn't read. If he did and was able to understand English, he would have seen that the document was a receipted mess account. But it served its purpose. "Sí, señor capitan," he replied, with a salute. Ten minutes later, Don Ramon and his companions in misfortune were seated in the stern-sheets of the _Rebound's_ picket-boat. He was only too glad to enjoy the security afforded by the British navy that he had oft-times derided. Standing beside the midshipman at the wheel of the picket-boat was Peter Corbold, ruminating with satisfaction upon the results of his jaunt ashore.