They would have pursued, but Barbados hailed them from below, ordering them down to the beach again. The boats were putting in from the ship.
Down to the strand they tumbled, getting ready to store away their loot. They did not bother about the dead pirate, since he was an ordinary fellow who did not count. They guzzled more wine, ran down into the surf to help drag the boats ashore, greeted their fellows, laughed and shouted and jested and cursed in raucous tones.
Barbados turned to where the Señorita Lolita was sitting with her back against the cliff wall, her tiny wrists lashed behind her. She raised her face and looked at him bravely, her black eyes snapping, her lips curled in scorn.
“This Señor Zorro, I have been given to understand, has some concern in you,” Barbados said.
“If he has, Señor Pirate, it is time for you to feel afraid,” she replied.
“Think you that I fear the fellow? Ha!”
“He is no fellow! He is a caballero with the best of blood flowing in his veins, if you can understand what that means—you, who have the blood of swine in yours!”
“By my naked blade!” Barbados swore. “Were you not to be saved for a great man, I’d punish you well for that remark, proud one! Pride of blood, eh? Ha! ’Tis a thing you will be willing to forget, and eager, within a moon’s time. When this man of whom I speak—”
“Is it necessary to speak at all to me?” the little señorita wanted to know.
Barbados snorted his anger and disgust. For a moment he turned away to issue a volley of commands to the men who were loading the boats. He berated Sanchez for being slow. He glanced up the face of the cliff once more, as though expecting Señor Zorro to come rushing down, deadly sword in hand. Presently he called two of his men to him.