The steps drew nearer, and the next minute from behind a group of magnificent fan palms appeared a squat, stout figure in a crimson uniform. From the precise military salute and respectful bearing of the lieutenant there was no question in the minds of the adventurers that they stood in the presence of the renowned General de Guzman. He was hailed in many quarters as the next dictator of Costaveza and the most inveterate enemy of Americans south of the Caribbean. Ned regarded him curiously, while the young officer, stepping up, drew the general aside and began whispering to him. General de Guzman at that time was a man of about fifty, with a florid complexion, thick neck and heavy, black mustache. His inky hair waved crisply about his rotund face, which, as has been said, was florid--noticeably so. Evidently the general was a good liver. His short, stubby legs were incased in dusty riding boots, on which jingled a pair of immense spurs with blunt rowels. A sword with a jeweled hilt was at his hip. A holster, with a businesslike-looking Colt reposing in it, also hung there. For headgear the renowned revolutionary wore a Panama hat, with a broad, red band encircling it. Between his lips was a huge cigar as black almost as his hair and mustache. He chewed it nervously while he listened to the young officer’s explanations, which Ned realized related to themselves. He watched the pair anxiously, for on the events of the next few minutes depended their success and possibly their lives. Not a whit less were his comrades absorbed in regarding what might prove a momentous interview. At last the general turned from the young officer and spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, and his words, for he used English, not calculated to relieve their apprehensions. “Englishmen, eh?” he rasped out, gazing at them with a suspicious stare. “They look to me more like four cursed, inquisitive Yankees.” CHAPTER XIII. PRISONERS OF WAR. If it had depended on Ned to speak at that instant the fate of the party would have been sealed then and there. His tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. He regarded the ruddy-faced insurgent leader with a look of downright dismay. Fortunately, however, Midshipman Stark’s presence of mind did not desert him. “Oh, I say, general, come!” he burst out, with a ghastly attempt at a laugh, “that’s a bit rough, eh?” “Hum, you sound like an Englishman,” was the general’s comment. “I beg your pardon, senor, for mistaking you for a Yankee.” The detestation with which he uttered the words convinced Ned--if he had, indeed, needed any convincing, that they were in as dangerous a position as could be imagined. One slip and they might find themselves with their backs against a wall, facing a row of insurgent rifles. “If he ever speaks to me, it’s all off,” thought Ned, with a groan. But luckily the general confined his conversation to Stark, who, as he went on, grew more confident.