"A woman's privilege!" she flashed back. "But how did it happen? And not only your arm," more sharply regarding him, "but your head! I fancy if I were to push back a few locks of that thick hair I should discover—it must have been a pretty blow you got, my Seigneur Solitude!" He made no reply and she went on. "You, who I thought were never beaten! By a mere handful of troops, too! Did you have to run away very fast? If I were a man—"
"Your tongue would be less sharp," he answered coolly, the black eyes indifferent.
"Much you care for my tongue!" she retorted.
"No?"
"No!" she returned mockingly, when above the din of voices, the crackling of the fire, and the wild moaning of the wind in the chimney, a low, but distinct and prolonged call was heard,—from somewhere without, below.
"What is that?" Quickly Nanette turned; superstitious, after the fashion of most of her people, a little of the color left her cheek. Again was it wafted to them, nearer, plainer! "The voices of dead men from the sea!"
"More like some one on the steps who would like to get in—some fisherman who has just got to shore!" said old Pierre Laroche, waking up and emptying his pipe. "Throw open the door. The stones are slippery—the night dark—"
One of the crew obeyed, and, as the wind entered sharply, and the lights flickered and grew dim, there half staggered, half rushed from the gloom, the figure of a man, wild, wet, whose clothes were torn and whose face was freshly cut and marked with many livid signs of violence.
"Sanchez!" From his place the Black Seigneur rose.
The others looked around wonderingly; some with rough pity. "What's the matter, man?" said one. "You look as if you had had a bad fall."