ding, the guards came to a halt.

There was a heavy iron door in front of it that opened slowly.

"March in," said the sergeant.

And the prisoners, with bayonets at their backs, were forced up the
steps and into the building.

The door shut again with a dull iron clang that sounded like a death
knell to Clif.

Ignacio entered, too. He seemed to have the privilege of going where he
chose; the sentries who were guarding that door asked him no questions.

It was apparently some sort of a military jail to which they had been
taken. Down a long stone corridor they were marched, and then halted in
front of a door.

The sergeant entered, and Ignacio after him. The rest waited outside.

It must have been at least fifteen minutes before anything more
occurred. Then the sergeant came out, and ordered the prisoners to
enter.

Clif, as the officer, entered first, and he found himself facing a tall,
military looking Spaniard with a resplendent uniform and an air of
authority. Who he was Clif had no idea, but he was evidently in command
of the place.

He was a dark, savage-looking man, and his brows were drawn down as he
frowned upon the prisoners.

And Clif was not surprised.

"He's had Ignacio to tell him about us," he thought to himself.

Ignacio was standing just behind the officer. There was a grin on his
face and a look of delight; he rubbed his hands gleefully as he watched
what transpired.

The Spanish officer glared at his prisoners sternly. Clif's bearing was
quiet and dignified.

"So you are the officer who commanded the Yankee pigs?" growled the man.

"I am an American naval cadet," was the response.

The Spaniard said nothing more for a moment, but continued his piercing
look.

"You put on a bold front," he said at last. "You must have looked
differently when you were running away."

The remark required no answer, and got none. Clif did not mean to bandy
words with the officer; if he wanted to taunt him he was welcome to do
so.

"We treat our prisoners more politely," he thought, "but I suppose this
is the Spanish way."

Meanwhile the officer went on.

"You will be less impudent later on," he snarled, "when you learn what
is in store for you. You've no idea, I presume."

"I understood that I was a prisoner of war," was the American's quiet
answer. "And I understood that Spain considered itself a civilized
nation."

The Spaniard laughed softly.

"A prisoner of war," he chuckled. "So you