Johnnie watched it with amusement. These dreadful stories of unthinkable cruelty had stirred up something within him. He was not cruel, but very tender-hearted, yet this little play upon the doubting Spaniard was welcome and fitted in with his mood.
Then he saw an astonishing thing, and one which he could not explain.
The two men, the huge, squat John Hull of Suffolk, the little weazened gentleman from Lisbon, shook hands, looked at each other earnestly in the face, and then, wonder of wonders, linked arms, turned their backs upon Johnnie and the sleepy old Frenchwoman by the carronade, and spoke earnestly to each other for a moment.
Their forms were silhouetted against the silver sea. There was an inexplicable motion of arms, a word whispered and a word exchanged, and then Don Perez wheeled round.
In the moonlight and the glimmer from the lantern on the forecastle, Johnnie saw that his face, which had been twitching with anxiety, was now absolutely at rest. It was radiant even, excited, pleased—it wore the aspect of one alone among enemies who had found a friend.
"'Tis all right, Señor," Perez said. "I will go and fetch you the papers of which I spoke. You may command me in any way now. You are not yourself—by any chance...."
John Hull shook his head violently, and the little Spaniard skipped away with a chuckle.
"What is this?" John Commendone asked. "How have you made quick friends with the Don? What is't—art magic, or what?"
"'Tis nothing, sir," Hull answered, with some embarrassment, "'tis but the Craft."