In the meantime Stanley and Herc had been bending over the wounded man. His eyes were closed and his face deadly pale. Herc for an instant feared, with an unpleasant thrill, that he was in the presence of death. No such timidity, however, assailed Stanley. With a quick move he ripped off the man’s shirt, which was ominously crimsoned. “The lantern, please, sir,” he said. Stark handed him the lamp, which had been placed in the bottom of the launch. Stanley held it above the man’s shoulder for an instant. It revealed a wound which was bleeding freely and looked ugly. But Stanley made light of it. “Only a flesh wound,” he pronounced, “and if what I guess is right it’s no more than the rascal deserved.” He ripped up the shirt into shreds, and began binding the wound. While Stanley was engaged in this office for the man whom he believed, as did the two boys, to be a traitor of the blackest sort, Ned handed the wheel to Herc, and with Midshipman Stark boarded the prize. The first prize he had ever assisted in capturing! How proudly the boy’s heart beat as he thought of his part in the achievements of the night! Of the trouble into which their rash acts might plunge their government none of them thought just at that moment. The frightened natives lay in the stern of the launch, where they had thrown themselves, groveling, when the firing commenced. It did not need a menacing flourish of Stark’s revolver to convince them that their best course was to be perfectly docile. They were that already. A more frightened set of individuals it would have been difficult to find. “Here, you, who speaks English?” began Stark. “I do, senor,” piped up a voice. “Well, what have you got in those boxes?” “Machinery, sir--ploughs and the like for Senor Charbonde’s plantation.” “Charbonde!” exclaimed Ned, forgetful in his astonishment that he was committing a breach of discipline by speaking in the presence of an officer without leave. “I--I beg your pardon, sir,” he began. “That’s all right, Strong,” assented the midshipman hastily, “if you know anything about this business, go ahead. If we’ve got the wrong launch, we’ll be in a nice mess. It may, as he says, belong to this Senor Charbonde.” “Who protects his plantation with riflemen, sir?” asked Ned quietly. “By Jove! that didn’t occur to me. But go on--question this fellow.” “Was Senor Charbonde on board to-night?” “Yes, sir, he arrived to-day on the mail steamer with another senor--an American.” “An American engaged in this dastardly business!” exclaimed the midshipman. “Yes, sir. Senor Hark--I forget the name.” “Not Harkins?” fairly shouted Ned. “That’s the name, senor. He swam ashore with the other senor when we saw your launch coming. As for us, we could not swim, so we waited the fate the saints held in store for us.” “You know this Charbonde, Strong?” asked the midshipman in astonishment.