“Your excellency is munificent,” he said.
“Now take your sentry from the door,” said Digby sharply.
“Wait here,” said the captain, and went below.
He returned in a few minutes.
XLVII
She had heard the tap of her first visitor at one o’clock in the morning. It had come when Digby Groat was sitting in his cabin turning over the possibilities of misfortune which the future held, and she had thought it was he.
The handle of the door turned and it opened an inch; beyond that it could not go without a crash, for the chairs and tables that Eunice had piled against it. She watched with a stony face and despair in her heart, as the opening of the door increased.
“Please do not be afraid,” said a voice.
Then it was not Digby! She sprang to her feet. It might be someone worse, but that was impossible.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“It is I, the captain,” said a voice in laboured English.
“What is it you want?”
“I wish to speak to you, mademoiselle, but you must put away these things from behind the door, otherwise I will call two of my sailors, and it will be a simple matter to push them aside.”
Already he had prized open the door to the extent of two or three inches, and with a groan Eunice realized the futility of her barricade. She dragged the furniture aside and the little captain came in smiling, hat in hand, closing the door after him.
“Permit me, mademoiselle,” he said politely, and moved her aside while he replaced the furniture; then he opened the door and looked out, and Eunice saw that there was a tall sailor standing with his back to her, evidently on guard. What did this mean, she wondered? The captain did not leave her long in ignorance.
“Lady,” he said in an accent which it was almost impossible to reproduce, “I am a poor sailor-man who works at his hazardous calling for two hundred miserable milreis a month. But because I am poor, and of humble—” he hesitated and used the Portuguese word for origin—which she guessed at—“it does not mean that I am without a heart.” He struck his breast violently. “I have a repugnancio to hurting female women!”
She was wondering what was coming next: would he offer to sell his master at a price? If he did, she would gladly agree, but the new hope which surged up within her was dissipated by his next words.
“My friend Groat,” he said, “is my master. I must obey his orders, and if he says ‘Go to Callio,’ or to Rio de Janeiro, I must go.”
Her hopes sunk, but evidently he had something more to say.
“As the captain I must do as I am told,” he said, “but I cannot and will not see a female hurted. You understand?”
She nodded, and the spark of hope kindled afresh.
“I myself cannot be here all the time, nor can my inconquerable sailors, to see that you are not hurted, and it would look bad for me if you were hurted—very bad!”
Evidently the worthy captain was taking a very farsighted view of the situation, and had hit upon a compromise which relieved him at least of his responsibility toward his master.
“If the young lady will take this, remembering that José Montigano was the good friend of hers, I shall be repaid.”
“This” was a silvery weapon. She took the weapon in her hand with a glad cry.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, captain,” she said, seizing his hand.
“Remember,” he raised a warning finger. “I cannot do more. I speak now as man to woman. Presently I speak as captain to owner. You understand the remarkable difference?”
He confused her a little, but she could guess what he meant.
He bowed and made his exit, but presently he returned.
“To put the chairs and tables against the door is no use,” he said, shaking his head. “It is better—” He pointed significantly to the revolver, and with a broad grin closed the door behind him.
Digby Groat knew nothing of this visit: it satisfied him that the sentry had been withdrawn, and that now nothing stood between him and the woman whom, in his distorted, evil way, he loved, but her own frail strength. He tapped again. It pleased him to observe these threadbare conventions for the time being, yet when no answer came to his knock, he opened the door slowly and walked in.
Eunice was standing at the far end of the cabin; the silken curtains had been drawn aside, and the door leading to her sitting saloon was open. Her hands were behind her and she was fully dressed.
“My dear,” said Digby, in his most expansive manner, “why are you tiring your pretty eyes? You should have been in bed and asleep.”
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“What else could a man want, who had such a beautiful wife, but the pleasure of her conversation and companionship,” he said with an air of gaiety.
“Stand where you are,” she called sharply as he advanced, and the authority in her tone made him halt.
“Now, Eunice,” he said, shaking his head, “you are making a lot of trouble when trouble is foolish. You have only to be sensible, and there is nothing in the world that I will not give you.”
“There is nothing in the world that you have to give, except the money which you have stolen from me,” she said calmly. “Why do you talk of giving, when I am the giver, and there is nothing for you to take but my mercy?”
He stared at her, stricken dumb by the coolness at the moment of her most
