I stood silent beside her, curiously conscious of every detail of Nature’s picture before me; for I had turned from her again, and my eyes roamed over sea and island. But at that moment there came from one of the narrow windows of the old house, directly above our heads, the sound of a low, amused, luxurious chuckle. A look of dread and shrinking spread over Phroso’s face.
‘Ah, that man!’ she exclaimed in an agitated whisper.
‘What of him?’
‘He has been here before. I have seen him smile and heard him laugh like that when he sent men to death and looked on while they died. Yes, men of our own island, men who had served us and were our friends. Ah, he frightens me, that man!’ She shuddered, stretching out her hand in an unconscious gesture, as though she would ward off some horrible thing. ‘I have heard him laugh like that when a woman asked her son’s life of him and a girl her lover’s. It kills me to be near him. He has no pity. My lord, intercede with him for the islanders. They are ignorant men: they did not know.’
‘Not one shall be hurt if I can help it,’ said I earnestly. ‘But—’ I stopped; yet I would go on, and I added, ‘Have you no fear of him yourself?’
‘What can he do to me?’ she asked. ‘He talked to me this morning about—about you. I hate to talk with him. But what can he do to me?’
I was silent. Mouraki had not hinted to her the idea which he had suggested, in puzzling ambiguity between jest and earnest, to me. Her eyes questioned me; then suddenly she laid her hand on my arm and said:
‘And you would protect me, my lord. While you were here, I should be safe.’
‘While!’ The little word struck cold on my heart: my eyes showed her the blow; in a minute she understood. She raised her hand from where it lay and pointed out towards the sea. I saw the pretty trim little yacht running home for the harbour after her morning cruise.
‘Yes, while you are here, my lord,’ she said, with the most pitiful of brave smiles.