"Now, listen to me. We have wasted too much time already. What is the name of your vessel?"
"The Isabel."
"So? Pretty name, but have it changed at the first opportunity. Where does she now lie?"
'North River, foot of Twenty-third Street.
"Excellent," comments Van Zandt, his eyes lighting with satisfaction. "And at what time did you intend to sail?"
"At five in the afternoon."
"You are of course aware that both the Spanish and United States governments are on the keen lookout for filibustering craft?"
"Certainly," Manada replies, grimly. "But we were confident of slipping through unmolested. We had arranged to clear for the Bermudas, and once on the high seas we felt sure of running away from any warships that might lie in our course."
"Ah, your vessel is a yacht. And the cargo—of what does that consist?"
"Two thousand rifles and 200,000 rounds of cartridges."
"How is it loaded?"
"The ammunition is packed in kegs, ostensibly containing salt fish; the rifles are in bags and are hidden at the bottom of bins of potatoes in the hold."
"The cargo could be shifted before daybreak, do you think?"
"Two or three hours should suffice."
"Good. You must have noticed, lying in the neighborhood of your vessel, a rather trim article in the yacht line."
"The Semiramis? Yes. A magnificent vessel!" exclaims Manada.
Van Zandt nods. She is my property and I believe her to be the fastest vessel afloat in the world to-day. Now here is my plan—I consider it the only one that will extricate you from the dilemma in which you are placed: I will place the Semiramis at the service of the struggling patriots of the Antilles. We will shift the Isabel's cargo
