It was evident to the sailor that the poor woman's mind had gone back to the dreadful days of the sack of Panama. He was right then, it was she.
"The boy—save him, save him!" she cried suddenly with astonishing vigor. The sound of her own voice seemed to recall her to herself. She stopped, her eyes lost their wild glare and fixed themselves upon the man above her, his own face in the shadow as hers was in the light.
"Is it Panama?" she asked. "Those screams—the shots—" She turned her head toward the city. "The flames—is it Panama?"
"Nay," answered the one-eyed fiercely. "'Tis twenty-five years since then, and more. Yonder city is La Guayra. This is the coast of Venezuela."
"Oh—the doomed town—I remember—now—I stabbed myself rather than—place the ladders. Who art thou, señor?"
"Benjamin Hornigold!" cried the man fiercely, bending his face to hers.
For a second the woman stared at him. Then, recognizing him, she screamed horribly, raising herself upon her arm.
"Hornigold!" she cried. "What have you done with the child?"
"I left him at Cuchillo, outside the walls," answered the man.
"And the cross?"