“Gar, ’tis certain, is it not? Their bold attack by boat and shore was not the outcome of a clumsy chance. They knew that she was here, and thought that you could not defend the island on both sides. But this is not the time for talk, monsieur. Marchons!”
An hour passed by, and the island’s sentinels could find neither upon land nor stream sure proof that the sun-worshipers meditated an immediate renewal of their attack.
“Tell me, señora,” cried de Sancerre, abandoning his patrol for a time to have speech with Doña Julia—“tell me what it means! They found two guns awaiting them instead of one. But they have come in force by wood and stream. They have no skill in war, if this is all their fight.”
“Be patient, señor, they will come again,” remarked the Spanish maiden, unconsciously suggesting by her words the influence which de Sancerre’s mind held over hers. “They have concealed themselves, to talk of many things which worry them.”
“Par exemple?” exclaimed de Sancerre, thrusting his hand through the opening to her hut, to clasp hers.
“They know that I am here.”
“You feel sure of that?”
“Yes. But they will not return to-night—for all night long the moon will shine.”
“Pardieu, I do not follow you, señora.”
“’Tis clear to me,” said the girl, firmly. “Somehow, I seem to read their minds, as if the saints were speaking to my soul. They fear that your white witchery, when the moon is full, is more fatal than they had dreamed. They will await the rising of their god, the sun, before they try to capture me again. Be convinced of this: they will attack you, señor, just at dawn. I know their hearts and habits well enough to feel assured that what I say is true. They are not cowards, but they dread the magic of your deadly guns.”