"Oh, demonio, yes—yes. These fine ladies have a habit of dying, and always coming to again," said Zuares, laughing.
"Make way there," exclaimed Pedro, brandishing his knife with something of mock and more of real ferocity. "One of them is mine by a cast of the dice, and mine she shall be," he added, hoarsely and huskily, while reeling towards the ladder.
"It is for my sins I am here," groaned Hawkshaw.
"Well, it is not likely for your virtues that you are among us, mate," said Zuares, laughing.
"Cuidar el lobo (Beware of the wolf)!" said Pedro, with a cruel grin, as he went up through the scuttle, or little hatch of the forecastle, and went aft with a stealthy step.
Inflamed to a dangerous pitch of rashness, lust, and savagery by the champagne and brandy, which he had been mixing and imbibing freely, this powerful and agile ruffian left the bunks on his fatal errand.
Save Bolter, the Canadian, who was at the wheel, and half tipsy too, there was not a man on deck now. Under her courses the ship was going before the wind, with a gentle breeze, which fanned pleasantly the hot, flushed face of Pedro Barradas, who paused for a moment, looked aloft, and then at the horizon.
The moon had newly risen from the sea to the eastward. To the west a line of deep crimson light, but transparent as the purest crystal, lingered between the dark horizon of the ocean and a long straight bank of black cloud, and the wave-tops, of a deeper tint than indigo, were seen to rise and fall incessantly between. Amid this low and blood-red belt of light, a few bright stars were twinkling.
Though weird and impressive, the night was solemn and pleasing; but all its gentle influences were lost on the ruffianly soul of Pedro Barradas.
Being barefooted, he crept along unheard, and at the companion-way he paused to listen.