“He seems to hate de Soto also pretty thoroughly,” said Harry. “Did you see the look he gave him as he went over the side?”
“Ay,” answered Roger, who went on to tell of Alvarez’s little soliloquy relative to de Soto while searching for the papers in the cabin of the sinking Gloria del Mundo. “He will do de Soto a bad turn, of that I am sure, if he ever gets the opportunity,” remarked Roger in conclusion.
All was now ready for their departure. The Spaniards had formed up on the beach and marched off in order into the bush, and were by this time nowhere to be seen.
Sail was hoisted and, the flag-ship leading, the little squadron passed out between the heads one after another on their way to the coast of Mexico; and by evening the island was merely a long grey line on the eastern horizon, while all eyes were strained toward the golden west, each man eager for the first sight of a sail that might prove to be a richly-laden galleon, or even the pirate José Leirya. Later in the evening the moon rose in all her tropic glory, and the sea in her wake gleamed like one huge speckless sheet of silver.
Behind them, in the bush on the island, by the evening camp-fire, Alvarez, with certain other choice spirits of his own stamp, was plotting grim and deadly evil by the light of the same moon which lit the English adventurers on their way.
Chapter Eight.
Roger goes ashore to rescue a marooned Man, and is himself left in the Lurch.
The days now slipped by uneventfully, and morning after morning broke without either land or ship making its appearance to break the monotony of a perfectly clear horizon.