"If I demand my freedom—liberty to return to my friends!" says she, perplexed by his sophistry, for she knew full well that this seeming compliance was but a mask and a snare.
"Certainly," says he, still with that hideous smile, "nothing can be more reasonable; and if it will give you happiness and promote that better opinion of me, which I hope one day you will entertain, I shall do my utmost to help you to find your friends."
Lady Biddy knew not what response to make to this fine speech, his promises being far too good to accept for his true intent; so she waited, looking at him to continue, but with much disgust and loathing, for there was lust in his face and devilish wickedness in his eyes, as leaning back on the sofett he surveyed her person from head to foot, and again brought his gaze slowly up to her face.
"Pardon me," says he, "your beauty distracts my thoughts from the subject of our conversation. Where was I? Ah, yes. Santiago de Léon de Caracas, whither we are now sailing, is an agreeable place. I have friends there. You must know that I am a Spanish gentleman by birth. There is a palace on the side of a hill facing the sea which I think will prove to your taste. You who have lived always in England can have no idea of the beauty of the country. I am sure you will be enchanted with it."
"What is this country or its palaces to me?" cries Lady Biddy, beginning to see his drift.
"You must have a roof to shelter you, and I could offer nothing less than a palace."
"I ask but my liberty that I may return to my friends in England."
"As you please," says he, airily. "I think you will change your mind when you see what a lovely place I propose for your home. However, if, after seeing it, you are still minded to return to England, to England you shall return. It will not be far out of that course to run round by the mouth of the Oronoque and take up poor Sir Harry Smidmore, if he be still on the island where the mutineers left him. Nor is there any reason why you should not cruise about in search of your uncle, Sir Bartlemy Pengilly. Thus would your pleasure in going home be unmarred by any anxiety on account of absent friends."
Once more did he pause to gloat on the perplexity and trouble in that dear face, which I warrant was become deadly pale with dreadful apprehension. His delight in her torture was like nothing but the pleasure of some cat that plays with a poor mouse before tearing it with cruel talons. Nay, I have observed that some men of the baser sort do strangely mingle cruelty with that sort of love they cherish, so that you will see such fellows take pleasure in making women weep.
"For my own part," continues this Rodrigues, with cool audacity, "it is no matter whether I live in the Indies or in Cornwall, so that I be in your company."