"Señora," spoke the father, "with our sail we could have reached your ships by time of dark. We cannot with the oars. There's nothing to do but lie here. When morning comes we'll row you to where you wish to go."
The stars crept out and kept watch over the heaving craft. The waves hurled spray against the backs of the oarsmen, of which they took no notice, except as the father would occasionally direct one of his sons to bale out the water.
Señora Valentino, who had sat for hours through repeated drenchings, shook with the cold. She was in the stern of the boat facing the others. Through the dimness they saw her crouching, elbows on knees, her body quivering, her teeth chattering.
Their rude chivalry awoke. The father spoke to one of the sons, who searched in the locker till he found a skin which had been rubbed over with seal oil. The lady wrapped herself in it.
The storm abated, and the cold increased correspondingly. The señora drew the coat more tightly about her. After a while she slept.
The fishermen began talking in low tones.
"Five hundred pesos," from the eldest son, "besides the one hundred in hand! We can buy the store of Manuel Lopez, and sell the fish that others catch."
"Five hundred pesos," from the youngest. "Is there that much money in the world? I wonder why the señora is so anxious to get on board the ships?"
"Past finding out are the ways of white people," the father replied. "Long have I ceased to try to understand them."
"I think," the boy continued, "that she must have a lover there."