“Not for a moment. Half an hour afterwards he was writhing on the floor of the hut in agonising convulsions, the ombachie and the ‘sampi tanguine’ standing over him. He died pardoning his persecutors, and his body was thrown over the precipice.”
“Poor fellow! Madre de Dios, what a melancholy tale! And the poor wife?” asked Isabel.
“I never heard,” replied Wyzinski. “A missionary should not marry, in my opinion.”
“There goes eight bells, and here comes the captain to take his watch,” exclaimed Hughes.
True to the old instinct, Captain Weber’s first impulse was to walk to the binnacle, and then to glance aloft at his dismantled masts and rigging.
Isabel seemed struck with the missionary’s melancholy tale. She rose and took the arm of the old seaman, who looked fondly into her face as she walked by his side. The moon had not risen, but there was a strong light over the sea, and before saying good night the girl gazed over the brig’s stern at the dark line of forest land and the myriads of dancing fireflies. She then turned, but seemed struck with something. “I did not know that there were rocks in the bay,” she said, pointing to the entrance.
Captain Weber did not understand French, but his eye followed the direction of the girl’s finger. There, sure enough, broad on the brig’s starboard bow lay three black points looking like rocks, but rising and falling on the waves.
Dropping the girl’s arm, he ran forward. “Mr Lowe, turn the hands up, quickly and silently,” he said, in a hoarse whisper; “arm the men at once. Look handy! The Malays are upon us.”