“How many are still in the ship?” he asked gently.

“Nobody but Perkins and that piratical crew of niggers.”

“And that infernal Hurlstone,” added Winslow.

The priest pricked up his ears.

“Hurlstone?” he repeated.

“Yes—­a passenger like ourselves, as we supposed.  But we are satisfied now he was in the conspiracy from the beginning,” translated Crosby painfully.

“Look at his strange disappearance—­a regular put-up job,” broke in Brace, in English, without reference to the Padre’s not comprehending him; “so that he and Perkins could shut themselves up together without suspicion.”

“Never mind Hurlstone now; he’s gone, and we’re here,” said Banks angrily.  “Ask the parson, as a gentleman and a Christian, what sort of a hole we’ve got into, anyhow.  How far is the next settlement?”

Crosby put the question.  The subaltern lit a cigarette.

“There is no next settlement.  The pueblo ends at San Antonio.”

“And what’s beyond that?”

“The ocean.”

“And what’s south?”

“The desert—­one cannot pass it.”

“And north?”

“The desert.”

“And east?”

“The desert too.”

“Then how do you get away from here?”

“We do not get away.”

“And how do you communicate with Mexico—­with your Government?”

“When a ship comes.”

“And when does a ship come?”

“Quien sabe?”

The officer threw away his cigarette.

“I say, you’ll tell the Commander that all this is illegal; and that I’m going to complain to our Government,” continued Banks hurriedly.

“I go to speak to the Comandante,” responded the priest gravely.

“And tell him that if he touches a hair of the ladies’ heads we’ll have his own scalp,” interrupted Brace impetuously.

Even Crosby’s diplomatic modification of this speech did not appear entirely successful.

“The Mexican soldier wars not with women,” said the priest coldly.  “Adieu, messieurs!”

The cavalcade moved on.  The Excelsior passengers at once resumed their chorus of complaint, tirade, and aggressive suggestion, heedless of the soldiers who rode stolidly on each side.

“To think we haven’t got a single revolver among us,” said Brace despairingly.

“We might each grab a carbine from these nigger fellows,” said Crosby, eying them contemplatively.

“And if they didn’t burst, and we weren’t shot by the next patrol, and if we’d calculated to be mean enough to run away from the women—­where would we escape to?” asked Banks curtly.  “Hold on at least until we get an ultimatum from that commodious ass at the Presidio!  Then we’ll anticipate the fool-killer, if you like.  My opinion is, they aren’t in any great hurry to try anything on us just yet.”

“And I say, lie low and keep dark until they show their hand,” added Winslow, who had no relish for an indiscriminate scrimmage, and had his own ideas of placating their captors.