Somewhere outside a guitar was thrumming random passages of Spanish dances, punctuated, now and then, by a little burst of castanets. The soft murmur of voices became audible every time the guitar stopped, with here a laugh and there an exclamation. Presently a voice called "Pablo!": the lilting rhythm of a dance theme stopped--suddenly in the middle of a bar--and the click of the castanets was stilled. Then, to soft, plaintive chords heavily stressed, an exquisite liquid tenor voice began to sing.
"Se murio, y sobre su cara" "Un panuelito le heche...." "Por que no toque la tierra...." "Esa bocca que yo bese!...."
The chords broke off abruptly on a single string that sung reverberatingly. There was laughter, applause, the confusion of men speaking together. Then a voice said distinctly in German:
"He hadn't come round when I looked in ten minutes ago. Karl knows how to send them to sleep with that blow of his...."
"He'll come out of dreamland quick enough when _der Stelze_ gives Black Pablo the word!" another voice replied.
"O Pablo," cried one in Spanish, "O Pablo! You shall try your little persuasions on the Señor!"
"_Madre de Dios_," answered a voice in guttural Spanish. "He shall speak for me, _muchachos_! And if he will not speak, then, _caramba_! maybe he'll sing for us and for the lovely _Señorita_ as well!"
Then followed a roar of acclamation. Then Black Pablo said:
"Patience a little while, _amigos_, until the chief comes. I go to make ready the fire!...."
I sprang to my feet. I heard no more of the talk outside, the cries, the laughter, the chaff. The time had come for action. I must decide at once between complete capitulation to Grundt or one last bid for liberty.
But what guarantees had I that Grundt, with the heliograph in his possession, would respect any promise he might give me as the price of surrender? None. I could not trust him and, as he had told me, he had an old score to pay off. And if anything should happen to me before the yacht returned what would become of Marjorie? Free I might help her; therefore any risk was justifiable to secure my escape.
The shed was solidly built of heavy logs, the door the only visible means of egress. The grating which admitted the air was a steel-bound frame too narrow, as I could see at a glance, to admit the passage of my body. I scrutinised the floor. It was of planking, well-made and seemingly in good condition. It struck hollow to the foot and I surmised that, as is generally the case with sheds of this kind, the structure was laid on a concrete foundation.