“Lucy, I am not fit now to hear more. You shall tell me all to-morrow;” and he turned away.
“Why do you take her hand?” said Ayacanora, half-scornfully. “She is old, and ugly, and dirty.”
“She is an Englishwoman, child, and a martyr, poor thing; and I would nurse her as I would my own mother.”
“Why don't you make me an Englishwoman, and a martyr? I could learn how to do anything that that old hag could do!”
“Instead of calling her names, go and tend her; that would be much fitter work for a woman than fighting among men.”
Ayacanora darted from him, thrust the sailors aside, and took possession of Lucy Passmore.
“Where shall I put her?” asked she of Amyas, without looking up.
“In the best cabin; and let her be served like a queen, lads.”
“No one shall touch her but me;” and taking up the withered frame in her arms, as if it were a doll, Ayacanora walked off with her in triumph, telling the men to go and mind the ship.
“The girl is mad,” said one.