"Do me the favour," said the large man, a trifle restively, "to
acknowledge, at least, that you catch the sound of my words." It
was possible that the fellow might be lacking in senses as well as
intellect.

The admiral emitted a croaking, harsh laugh, and spake.

"They will stand you," he said, "with your face to a wall and shoot
you dead. That is the way they kill traitors. I knew you when you
stepped into my boat. I have seen your picture in a book. You are
Sabas Placido, traitor to your country. With your face to a wall. So,
you will die. I am the admiral, and I will take you to them. With
your face to a wall. Yes."

Don Sabas half turned and waved his hand, with a ringing laugh,
toward his fellow fugitives. "To you, _caballeros_, I have related
the history of that session when we issued that O! so ridiculous
commission. Of a truth our jest has been turned against us. Behold
the Frankenstein's monster we have created!"

Don Sabas glanced toward the shore. The lights of Coralio were
drawing near. He could see the beach, the warehouse of the _Bodega
Nacional_, the long, low _cuartel_ occupied by the soldiers, and,
behind that, gleaming in the moonlight, a stretch of high adobe wall.
He had seen men stood with their faces to that wall and shot dead.

Again he addressed the extravagant figure at the helm.

"It is true," he said, "that I am fleeing the country. But, receive
the assurance that I care very little for that. Courts and camps
everywhere are open to Sabas Placido. _Vaya!_ what is this molehill
of a republic--this pig's head of a country--to a man like me? I am a
_paisano_ of everywhere. In Rome, in London, in Paris, in Vienna, you
will hear them say: 'Welcome back, Don Sabas.' Come!--_tonto_--baboon
of a boy--admiral, whatever you call yourself, turn your boat. Put us
on board the _Salvador_, and here is your pay--five hundred _pesos_
in money of the _Estados Unidos_--more than your lying government
will pay you in twenty years."

Don Sabas pressed a plump purse against the youth's hand. The admiral
gave no heed to the words or the movement. Braced against the helm,
he was holding the sloop dead on her shoreward course. His dull face
was lit almost to intelligence by some inward conceit that seemed to
afford him joy, and found utterance in another parrot-like cackle.

"That is why they do it," he said--"so that you will not see the
guns. They fire--oom!--and you fall dead. With your face to the wa