“Men are men, but it is not in my mind to fight with ghosts,” Sanchez told him. “We are bedeviled for some reason!”
“Ha!” Barbados gasped. “That reminds me!” He turned away and walked the length of the deck, and finally came across the man he sought, and drew him aside. “You have the thing yet?” he asked.
“The goblet? Sí, señor! If the captain wishes it—”
“Do not even show it to me!” Barbados commanded. “I would have you toss it into the sea, save that such an act might bring worse luck yet. So long as you retain it, perhaps you draw all the ill fortune to yourself. Spawn of hell, if ever you come face to face with that old fray, in flesh or in spirit, have a look to yourself! For you have done an evil thing!”
Barbados passed on, and descended to the cabin where Señorita Lolita had been returned a prisoner.
She was as a woman stunned. She had fainted when Señor Zorro had plunged into the sea, and Sanchez had carried her below. And when she regained consciousness she remained on the bunk and groaned and prayed by turns.
And now, when Barbados opened the door, she sat up quickly, a look of agony in her face. One thing she had done—picked up from the floor of the cabin the dagger that had belonged to the man Señor Zorro had slain through the crack. She had cleaned it, and thrust it in the bosom of her dress, where it was out of sight, but where she could reach it instantly.
Barbados looked at her for a moment, and then spoke.
“In your right mind again, eh wench?” he said. “We are running away from your friends, and there can be no hope of rescue. It would be proper for you to make the best of it. The man for whom we have stolen you perchance will be kind.”
“Foul beast and murderer!” the señorita said.