“And when we have left these quiet waters, my son!” broke in the padre, “what then?”
The fact was, that the carnivorous and vinous Father Ricardo knew that his stomach was not suited for high winds and rough oceans, and was hoping that some scheme might be devised to allow him to remain tranquilly on the island.
“Why, holy padre, I propose to steer clear of the West Indies by some unfrequented track, and, striking the broad Atlantic, stretch down the coast of Brazil. Perhaps we may double Cape Horn, and see what those miserable patriots are fighting for in Chili and Peru; then maybe across the Pacific, to the lovely islands and maidens of Polynesia; so on to the China Seas, where we may fall in with an outward-bound Canton trader, or a galleon with a ton or two of silver on board––who knows?––there is plenty of blue water and fine ships every where; so we must be content.”
Padre Ricardo made the sign of the cross, kissed his thumb and fore finger, and, reaching his dirty paw over to the captain, shook hands with him.
“Ay, amigos!” continued the leader, without minding the friendly interruption; “yes, my friends, we shall, I trust, give the hounds in search of us the slip; and even should they scent out this retired little spot, they will have their trouble for their chase, and find nothing but a few stones and heaps of rubbish above ground.”
“They may find some little matters below, though,” chimed in the commander of the felucca.
“If they do,” retorted the pirate, with a meaning scowl, “I’ll put the spy who betrays it to such a torture as that he’ll wish himself below ground when I come back here.”
“Cierto, amigo! no fear of that!” muttered the Tuerto, with some little trepidation of manner. “My papers are white.”
“Captain Brand,” said the doctor, “my contract with you is nearly up, and since I only agreed––as you know––to enlist my professional services here on shore, I presume you will have no objections to permit me to depart with Don Ignaçio in the felucca.”