"By the heart of Portuguez, he can!" cried another voice, and Yellow Rufe strode through the bushes.
"Rufe!" exclaimed the girl, feigning astonishment. Her ears were too keen not to have caught Rufe's voice in the whispering that had gone on.
"Yes, Rufe, and obliged to thee, Pascherette. Dost say thou wilt help me win away?"
"Gladly, Rufe, for I like well men of your mettle. Follow close behind Sancho and me. Count ten score after we go in to Dolores with Milo, then for an hour thou'lt have the sea to thyself. Luck go with thee, Rufe; thou'lt think of little Pascherette sometimes, I'll warrant."
A rumble of thunder rolled up from the sea, and lightning played in the tree-tops. Pascherette turned back toward the camp, and giving no heed to Sancho save to listen for his footsteps, she ran through the darkness sure-footed, sure-eyed as a cat. Rain began to fall, and the heavy foliage thrummed with the growing downpour which yet did not penetrate to the earth. As they neared the shore, the forest resounded with the solemn boom and crash of long-sweeping seas outside the bar; the wind screamed among the huts; all the women and those men who had returned from their portion of the search were snugly under cover. The place seemed deserted.
"Farewell, Rufe," Pascherette whispered at last, when the great black mass of the council hall loomed against the sky in a lightning flash. "Count ten score. Thy safety is in my hands."
Then she took Sancho by the hand, and led him through the plashing rain to the rear of the hall and called softly: "Milo!"
"Here. Hast found him?"
"Take us to the Sultana quickly, Milo. I have told Sancho to trust in the justice of Dolores."
"He may well do that," returned Milo. "The great Sultana is ever just."