"My lord," cried Mercedes, "I know not what to say."
"Say, 'Harry Morgan, I love you and I am yours.'"
"There is another present, señor."
"Where? Another? Who has dared—" roared the buccaneer glaring about him.
"Thy servant—the negro."
"Oh," he laughed, "he is nothing. Black Dog, we call him. He is my slave, my shadow, my protection. He is always by."
An idea had swiftly flashed into the young girl's mind. If she could get rid of the slave she could deal more easily with the master. She was tall, strong, and Morgan, it appeared, was not in full possession of his faculties or his strength from the liquor he had imbibed.
"Still," she urged, "I do not like to be wooed in the presence of another, even though he be a slave. 'Tis not a Spanish maiden's way, sir."
"Your will now, lady," said the buccaneer, with a hideous attempt at gallantry, "is my law. Afterwards—'twill be another matter. Out, Carib, but be within call. Now, madam, we are alone. Speak you the English tongue?"
The conversation had been carried on in Spanish heretofore.