"Aye, in a song."
"Oh, verily!" said she and forthwith began singing in her deep, rich voice:
"There's a fine Spanish dame
And Joanna's her name
Shall follow wherever you go—"
"Aha, and mark this, Martino:
"Till your black heart shall feel
Your own cursed steel
Black Bartlemy—Bartlemy, ho!"
"But this was my mother—"
"Ha—she that stabbed and killed the pirate Bartlemy ere he slew her? But she was a Spanish lady."
"Nay, she was English, and lieth buried hereabouts, 'tis said; howbeit, she died here whiles I was with the Indians. They found me, very small and helpless, in the ruins of a burned town and took me away into the mountains and, being Indians, used me kindly and well. Then came white men, twenty and two, and, being Christians, slew the Indians and used me evilly and were cruel, save only one; twenty and two they were and all dead long ago, each and every, save only one. Aha, Martino, for the evil men have made me endure, I have ever been excellent well avenged! For I am Joanna that some call 'Culebra' and some 'Gadfly' and some 'Fighting Jo.' And indeed there be few men can match me at swordplay and as for musket and pistol—watch now, Martino, the macaw yonder!" She pointed to a bird that stood preening itself on a rock at no little distance and, catching up the pistol, levelled and fired; and in place of the bird was nought but a splash of blood and a few poor, gaudy feathers stirring lazily in the gentle wind.
"See," cried she, with a little, soft laugh, "am I not a goodly camarado for any brave fellow, yes?"
"Truly," said I, turning away, "I think your breeches do become you best—"