The conversation which she had overheard, conveying as it did the confirmation of her worst fears, had agitated Mariquita exceedingly, but she knew that she must control her emotion, and arouse no suspicions in the minds of these villains.  Benito, wounded, and in desperate case, was in no position to recognise her, and Joe was, of course, completely in the dark as to whom he had admitted within his shop.

The work in the cellar was not completed and the bread carried upstairs for an hour or more, during which time Mariquita was able to think over and decide what she would do.  She had matured her plan when they got upstairs.

“Pay me!” she said, saucily, to Valetta Joe.  “I shan’t stop here.”

“Pay you, vile imp?  Why, I only took you on trial!”

“Pay me!” she repeated.  “You shan’t cheat me.”

“I owe you nothing.  Be off out of this or you shall feel the weight of my hand.”

“Pay me, you swindling old rogue!” shouted Mariquita, in a shrill voice.  “I won’t go till I get my rights.”

“You won’t!” cried Joe, as he seized her roughly by the collar and dragged her towards the door.

“Villain!  Thief!  Murder!  Help, help!  He is killing me!” cried Mariquita, now at the top of her voice, and this frenzied appeal had the exact effect she hoped.  A crowd of camp-followers quickly gathered around the door of the shanty, and with it came a couple of stalwart assistants of the provost-marshal.

“What’s all this?” asked one of them, in a peremptory tone.  “Leave that lad alone, you old rascal!”

“What’s he doing to you?” asked the other.

“He won’t pay me my wages,” said Mariquita, in a whining, piteous voice.  “He owes me three shillings.”

“I don’t, you lying little ragamuffin!  I only took you on trial.”

“He does; and he was beating me, ill-using me,” went on Mariquita.

“We can’t have no disturbance here,” said one of the provost-marshal’s men.  “You must come before the provost, both of you; he’ll settle your case in a brace of shakes.  Bill, you bring the old man; I’ll take charge of the youngster.”

And the two guardians of order marched their prisoners through the hut-town to a wooden building at the end, where Major Shervinton dealt out a simple, rough-and-ready justice to the turbulent characters he ruled.

This was precisely what Mariquita had hoped for.  What she sought at all hazards was to gain speech of the provost-marshal.

They had to wait for him half-an-hour, and when he appeared there were other cases to be dealt with first.

When it came to Valetta Joe’s turn, he stoutly denied the charge of defrauding and ill-using the lad.

“I don’t know about the wages, sir,” said one of the assistants, “but we caught him in the act of cuffing the boy.”

“What does he owe you, my lad?” asked Major Shervinton.

“Nothing,” replied Mariquita, trembling and in very imperfect English.  “I only wanted to get him here to denounce him as a friend of the Russians and a spy.”