He first caught sight of the old chap who’d unfastened my ropes. Phew! he did give him a piece of his mind through the grating! and then the old fellow was dragged out and marched off to a bit of blank wall between two of the saluting guns. The fat little A.D.C. went up to him, and then I knew what was going to happen, for I saw him offer to tie a handkerchief across his eyes—he was going to be shot. But he wouldn’t have his eyes covered, and for a moment I saw him standing bolt upright with his arms folded in front of him. Then some soldiers ran up, stood in a line between him and me, an officer gave an order, their rifles went up to the present; I turned my head away and saw the other prisoners clutching the gratings, their throat muscles all swollen, and their eyes starting out; there was a scraggy volley, and the President came back again. Two more men were hauled out and shot, and I shall never forget the face of one of them as he was marched away. It was just like picking a fat hen out of a coop, and we were the hens. Then back the President came a fourth time, and I was dragged out. He knew that I wasn’t Gerald right enough, but his eyes simply spat fire, and he stamped with rage and was more furious than ever because I couldn’t understand him. [Illustration: "HIS EYES SPAT FIRE"] The fat little A.D.C. was called up to ask questions. He gave me a friendly wink, and I notched up a point in his favour. He jabbered away to the President and I heard ’Wilson no Don Geraldio’ and ’_Hector buque de guerra—Inglesa—Los Angelos_.’ He asked me if I knew where Gerald was. Of course I didn’t and shook my head, ’No! old chap, I don’t.’ The President didn’t believe it when this was told him. ’El Presidente say shoot you if do not say where is Don Geraldio.’ Of course that was only bluff, and I smiled. Then the firing party were called across, but that was still only bluff, I thought, and it didn’t frighten me in the least till I saw the fat little A.D.C.’s face turn yellow under his brown skin. Well, then I was in a mortal funk, if you like, and something inside me went flop down into my boots. ’Our cannon—cannon of _Hector_—shoot thirty kilometres,’ I jerked out, remembering how impressed the A.D.C.’s had been with our after 9.2, my tongue feeling a bit sticky and my knees not altogether steady. The old Governor, the two A.D.C.’s, and several other officers were evidently doing their best for me. I heard ’kilometres’ mentioned once or twice, and then the President waved his hand majestically and I was taken back and the grating locked behind me.