“Well,” I exclaimed, “that is a most extraordinary story, extraordinary not only from the fact of your having been the heroine of such a terrible adventure, but even more so from the circumstance that you were rescued and have been taken care of ever since by Ricardo. One would have thought that it would have been the most natural thing in the world for him to have callously left you all to perish. How many of your boat’s crew were alive when he picked you up?”
“Only two sailors, and Mammy, and myself,” answered Lotta; “and I afterwards heard that the sailors had joined Ricardo.”
“And have you never had any desire to escape and seek the protection of your guardians?” demanded I.
“Only at very rare intervals, and even then the feeling was not very strong,” was the extraordinary answer. “You see,” Lotta explained, “I am perfectly happy where I am. This is a most lovely spot in which to live, the most lovely that I have ever seen; and Ricardo is kindness itself to me during the rare periods when he is ‘at home’, as he calls it. I have never expressed a wish that he has not gratified, I have every possible comfort, and, what with my guitar, my garden, my morning and evening swim, and making clothes for myself, I find so much occupation that I do not know what it is to have a wearisome moment. And, now that you have come to be a companion to me, I cannot think of anything else to wish for.”
The charming naïvété of this remark fairly took my breath away; but I was careful that the girl should not be allowed to guess, from my manner, that she had said anything in the least remarkable. Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps became audible, and Lotta remarked:
“Now, here comes Fonseca, and I suppose I shall have to go. But I will come back again when he leaves you.”
As she rose to her feet the door opened, and the Spanish surgeon entered.
“Good morning, señorita!” he exclaimed. “How is our patient? Vastly better, Mammy tells me. I see she is busy preparing some broth for Señor Grenvile, but he must not have it until I have thoroughly satisfied myself that it would be good for him. Well, señor,” as he seated himself on the side of the bed and laid his fingers upon my pulse, “you are looking rather more like a living being than you were twenty-four hours ago. Mammy’s medicines are simply marvellous, I will say that for them, although the old witch will not tell me of what they are composed. Um! yes; eyes bright—almost too bright—pulse strong but decidedly too quick. You have been talking too much. That will not do. The señorita”—she had slipped out of the room by this time—“must either stay away, or not talk to you. Now, let me look at your wound.” And he proceeded very carefully to remove the dressings.
This, it appeared, was progressing very satisfactorily, so he re-dressed it—my broken pate had healed itself, and needed no further looking after,—administered a sleeping draught, and then retired, after informing me that I could have Mammy’s broth later, but that, in the meantime, sleep was of more value and importance to me than food. He had not been gone ten minutes before I was fast asleep.
Several days elapsed, and I never saw Ricardo, although I was told by Lotta and Mammy that he had frequently looked in upon me while I slept. Thanks to good nursing, I was making very satisfactory progress, although still far too weak and ill to be able to rise from my bed. Meanwhile I was able to see, by simply looking out of my bedroom window, that the Barracouta was being rapidly refitted—so rapidly, indeed, that I conjectured Ricardo must have made a point of always keeping an entire spare set of masts, spars, rigging, and sails on hand, in readiness for any such emergency as that which had arisen in connection with his fight with the Francesca.