What mattered it, then, whether she passed her weary span of life in the city of Seville or in the strange environment toward which the ship plunged on? In either case, the romance of her youth was dead. That the strange chances of existence would ever bring Louis de Sancerre again to her side, Julia de Aquilar never dreamed. Even in the prayers that she offered day and night to the Virgin Mother above her head she had never voiced a longing which, put into words, would have sounded to her ears like the incipient ravings of insanity. Her betrothed and the man whom she had begun to love had both passed from her life at the same moment, and through the gloom of night there came to Doña Julia no ray of hope save from the gentle radiance of Mother Church. The veil, and its promise of perfect peace, grew constantly more alluring to her distraught soul, as week crept into week and the very timbers of the ship cried ever louder against the cruel persistence of the lonely sea.
From a dreamless sleep—a rare blessing vouchsafed by Mother Mary—Doña Julia awoke one night with a start and sat upright in her hammock, peering into the darkness with straining eyes. What had disturbed her slumber she did not at first know. But above her head echoed the shuffling sounds of hurrying feet, and the flapping of canvas as the ship came about in a stiff breeze. Leaping down from her hammock and throwing a long, black cape over her shoulders, she groped her way to the entrance to her cabin and threw open the clumsy door. A swinging lantern lighted the hatchway, and, almost before her eyes had grown accustomed to the sudden glare, above her head sounded the grewsome cry of “Man overboard!”
At that instant down the ladder in front of the trembling girl crept the slinking figure of Juan Rodriquez. For a fleeting moment Doña Julia caught a glimpse of the youth’s pallid face, upon which there rested an evil smile made up of fear, cruelty, and triumph. Believing himself unobserved, Juan stood for a moment at the foot of the ladder looking upward toward the deck and listening intently to the uproar above his head. Then, with a subdued chuckle, which sent a chill through the heart of the motionless girl, he stole into the shadows toward his berth amidships.
The harsh cries of the panic-stricken sailors filled the night with a horrid din. The Spanish maiden, undecided whether to climb to the deck or to return to her hammock, crossed herself devoutly and murmured a prayer to St. Christopher, who watches over seamen and protects the faithful from night alarms. The mischievous lantern, vibrating wildly as the ship took the seas broadside on, threw lights and shadows across the disturbed face of the girl, and seemed to rejoice at its chance to add to the uncanny features of her surroundings.
The turmoil on the deck decreased as the moments passed, but Doña Julia still stood waiting, listening, praying; chafing at inaction, but distrustful of the night beyond the hatchway. To her, thus agitated, came her father down the ladder, his worn figure bent as if it carried a great burden. He turned and faced her, and as the playful lantern swung toward them she saw that his face was ghastly pale, and that his thin hand trembled as he wiped the sea-spray from his furrowed brow.
“What is it, father?” asked the girl, springing toward Don Rodrigo and placing both hands upon his shoulders as she peered into his white face.
“Captain Hernandez,” muttered the old man, in a voice that told the story of his despair—“he fell into the sea. None saw him in the blackness of the night, but far astern the helmsman heard a cry—and that was all! God rest his soul!” he groaned, crossing himself. “It will go hard with us, I fear.”
“But, father—Mother Mary, pray for him!—the voyage nears its end. Captain Hernandez—the saints receive him!—had with him men who know these seas?”
“I trust them not,” murmured the old man, wearily. Then, as if he regretted the admission he had made, he bent and kissed the anxious face of his daughter and said, with an effort at cheerfulness, “But fear not, Julia. All will yet be well. I’ve vowed an altar to St. James of Compostella, whose blessing rests on pilgrims of the faith. But how to calm the crew I hardly know. The sailors seem nigh mad with fear. They say that Satan is aboard the ship.”
“Alas, I think he is,” murmured Julia to herself, as she returned to her cabin and threw herself despondently upon her swinging bed. That she had solved by chance the awful secret of the captain’s death, she could not for a moment doubt.