"Ho! for a cask in the fire's red glow;
Ho! for the heaps of plunder.
There are showers of pearls for the pirates' girls—
The rain from the corsair's thunder!"
At the end of her song Pascherette halted, listened, then called softly:
"Sancho! Thy Pascherette calls!"
Silence prevailed for several moments, and she called again, fearing that her voice had gone astray amid the increasing confusion of the trees. Then came a lull in the wind, the lull that always punctuated the gathering of such tropical storms as now threatened; and in the hush she heard voices—uncertain, disputing. Then Sancho growled, close to her ear:
"Art alone, jade?"
"Oh, Sancho!" she cried, darting into the gloom to the sound of his voice and flinging her arms about him. "I have feared for thee, my Sancho. Now I fear no more, for all is well."
"Well?" the pirate growled suspiciously. "Hast left thy hot-blood mistress, then?"
"No, Sancho. It is better for thee even than that. I have made thy peace with Dolores. She has forgiven thee, and wishes to tell thee so."
A fervid curse burst from some one yet invisible, and Sancho leaned back to catch some whispered words. Then he, too, ripped out an oath, and gripped Pascherette tightly by the arm.
"This is a trick, little devil! Don't you value that pretty little head more than to trifle with me?"