“Master and dog!” he said, bitterly. “Mistress and dog, I ought to say.”
He drew himself up, for he heard a well-known step coming quickly along the passage. The curtain was snatched aside, and the buccaneer took a dozen strides into the place and stopped, looking round.
“Where are you?” cried the buccaneer, in a harsh, imperious voice, deep almost as that of a man.
There was no reply.
“Where are you, I say?” was repeated imperiously. “Are you ashamed to speak?”
“No! What do you want?”
The buccaneer started in surprise, and faced round.
“Are you there? Coward! Traitor! This explains all. This is the meaning of the haughty contempt—the miserable coldness. And for a woman like that—the mistress of the vilest slave among the men. Humphrey Armstrong—you, the brave officer, to stoop to this! Shame upon you! Shame!”
“Woman, are you mad!”
“Yes! Mad!” cried the buccaneer, fiercely. “I scorn myself for my weak, pitiful fancy for so despicable a creature as you. So this is the brave captain, holding nightly meetings with a woman like that!”