“Bloodhounds—there are no bloodhounds here!” said Darius Boland. “And if there were, wouldn’t pious England make a fuss?”
Dyck Calhoun was about to speak sharply, but he caught sarcasm in Darius Boland’s face, and he said: “I have the bloodhounds. They’re outside the harbour now, and I intend to use them.”
“If the governor allows you!” remarked Darius Boland ironically. “He does not like you or your bloodhounds. He has his orders, so he says.”
Dyck made an impatient gesture. “I will not submit to his orders. I have earned my place in this is land, and he shall not have his way. The ladies must be brought to Spanish Town, and placed where the governor’s men can protect them.”
“The governor’s men! Indeed. They might as well stay here; we can surely protect them.”
“Perhaps, for you have skill, Boland, and you are cautious, but is it fair for ladies to stay in this isolated spot with murderers about? When the ladies come back, they must be sent at once to Spanish Town. Can’t you see?”
Darius Boland bowed. “What you say goes always,” he remarked, “but tell me, sir, who will take the ladies to Spanish Town?”
Dyck Calhoun read the inner meaning of Darius Boland’s words. They did not put him out of self-control. It was not a time to dwell on such things. It was his primary duty to save the ladies.
“Come, Boland,” he said sharply, “I shall start now. We must find the ladies. What sort of a country is it through which they pass?” He pointed.
“Bad enough in some ways. There’s an old monastery of the days of the Spaniards up there”—he pointed or the ruins of one, “and it is a pleasant place to rest. I doubt not they rested there, if—”