“Diego!” she breathed. “If it could only be Diego!”
The moon was dropping, was at the point where the shadows were lengthened, grotesque. And suddenly Sanchez gave a cry and pointed to the stretch of sand. Barbados turned to look. The pirates stopped drinking and crowded forward.
There on the sandy stretch a picture was being enacted. They saw the silhouettes of two men fighting, thrusting and slashing at each other. From above came the ringing of blades that met with violence.
The pirates sprang back, tried to look up and ascertain what was taking place there. The shadows disappeared from the sand for a time as the combatants reeled back from the edge of the cliff.
“Above, some of you!” Barbados cried.
They started—and stopped. Down the face of the cliff came tumbling the body of the pirate sentinel. It struck the sand, and Barbados and the others crowded forward to see.
“By the saints!” Barbados swore.
His little eyes bulged. On the cheek of the dead pirate sentinel was a freshly-carved Z.
“Barbados! Look!” Sanchez cried.