All this time the midshipman had stood motionless. Not a word had passed his lips. Now General de Guzman turned to him with a savage look. “What have you to say to this, Mr. Englishman?” “That I am sorry I tried to take you in,” shot out Stark crisply. “I am an American officer, and proud of my commission.” “So, since when has it been the duty of American officers to come skulkingly disguised within the lines of neutral forces?” “Our errand here was one of curiosity only and purely of a non-combative nature,” protested Stark. “Bah! sir. Bah!” exclaimed the general angrily, impatiently, “do not bandy words with me.” He drew a whistle from his belt and blew it. Instantly a score of soldiers entered the courtyard. Their bayonets were fixed and their expressions fierce. “Make those men prisoners,” ordered the general in Spanish. “Surely you do not intend to make captive four American citizens?” asked Stark. “I do, sir, and shall likewise call a summary court-martial to decide upon your fate.” Even the courageous Stanley’s lips went white at this. A court-martial meant only one thing--a mockery of trial, and then--a file of insurgents and a hasty grave. “In that case, general,” pleaded the middy, “let these men go. I am an officer, and came here on my own responsibility. They were merely obeying orders. You cannot hold them responsible.” “You are all equally guilty in my eyes,” was the short reply. “But,” broke out Stark desperately, “you don’t understand. You can’t. This mission of ours here has nothing to do with our government. It’s just a lark--a stupid one, I admit, but a joke nevertheless.” “I beg to differ with you, sir. American officers are not in the habit of playing such ‘jokes,’ as you call them. You are spies, sir!” “It’s all over,” groaned Stanley. “Shiver my timbers, Mr. Stark,” tapping his revolver, “but I’ve six bullets in here that are just itching to find their way into a South American carcass.” “For Heaven’s sake, Stanley, take your hand off your revolver. You may cost us all our lives.” “I’m afraid they’re as good as gone already, sir,” muttered the man-of-war’s man gloomily. General de Guzman seemed disinclined to continue the interview. “Take them away,” he ordered brusquely, turning away, while his spurs rang sharply on the tiled floor of the court. Ned felt desperate. Had it not been for his officer’s positive order he would have suggested fighting their way out desperately. It is true they could not have gone more than a few feet before they would have been pierced with insurgent bullets, but at least they would have had the satisfaction of dying in action. Suddenly the girl, a tall, slender young woman, with great masses of black hair coiled about a shapely head and large, luminous eyes, emerged from behind the palm, where she had been a silent witness of the scene. The sight of her recalled the will to Ned’s mind, and gave him a sudden desperate inspiration.