"It was not the Señor Maxwell who kill him? And the man with the cross on his forehead?"
"No," said Dane. "Rideau was drowned while trying to avoid me. The man with the cross on his forehead is also dead. He twice attempted my comrade's life, and I shot him one night when he was crawling toward my tent."
Bonita bent her head in a curious formal salutation.
"Our felicitations, Don Ilton. And the Señor Maxwell?"
Her voice grew a little deeper with the last question, and there was a note in it which puzzled Dane, while she cast a swift glance toward the second surf-boat lurching in shore from the anchored steamer. The man hesitated before he answered.
"He also is dead, señorita. He was treacherously murdered in the forest beyond the Leopards' country."
Amid all the memories Dane carried with him from Africa there were only two which equaled in vividness that of the few following moments. The girl stifled a half-articulate cry, and a heavy silence succeeded. Dom Pedro grasped the rails hard with genuine consternation in his face; and there was horror in the señora's expression. Bonita stood stiffly upright, with lips turned suddenly bloodless and a look that astonished Dane in her dilated eyes. Beyond that space of shadow there was dazzling sunlight, and to emphasize the stillness on the veranda the hot air vibrated with the roar of the sea. The girl appeared to choke for breath. Understanding suddenly, Dane turned his eyes away. It was the señora who spoke first.
"All dead. Reina de los angeles—ave!" she murmured.
Dane, looking round again, saw that Bonita was mistress of herself. It was all clear now, and he admired as well as pitied her. Passionate, vindictive, wayward as she was, the blow had stirred within her the pride of her race, and it was with a queenly air she turned toward him.
"The señor will pardon us if we give him pain, but he will tell us all. Of Rideau's treachery, and—how his comrade fell."