"On his breast. The Captain——"
"The marriage lines were there. You betrayed me. May God's curse—nay, I die. For Christ's sake—I forgive—Francisco, Francisco."
She fell back gasping on the sand. He tore the enclosing coif from her face. In a vain effort to hold back death's hand for another second, Hornigold snatched a spirit flask from his belt and strove to force a drop between her lips. It was too late. She was gone. He knew the signs too well. He laid her back on the sand, exclaiming:
"Curse her! Why couldn't she have lived a moment longer? The Captain's brat—and she might have told me. Bring up the prisoners!" he cried to the guards, who had moved them out of earshot of this strange conversation.
"The cross," he muttered, "the marriage lines therein. The only clew. And yet she cried 'Francisco.' That was the name. Who is he? If I could find that cross. I'd know it among a thousand. Hither," he called to the prisoners slowly approaching.
"The good sister?" queried Alvarado.
"Dead."
As the young soldier, with an ejaculation of pity, bent forward in the moonlight to look upon the face of the dead woman, from his torn doublet a silver crucifix suddenly swung before the eyes of the old buccaneer.
"By heaven!" he cried. "'Tis the cross."
He stepped nearer to Alvarado, seized the carven crucifix, and lifted it to the light.