“I prefer to remain here, Señor Pirate,” she replied.
“No doubt. But the commands of Barbados are made to be obeyed, as I learned some years ago. He has said that you are to go on deck, and so you shall, even if I have to carry you.”
One step he took toward her, but she sprang from the bunk and crouched against the wall.
“Dare not to touch me, foul beast!” she cried. “’Twas you cut my father down! ’Twas you stole me away from my home and fetched me to the coast!”
“I do not want to touch you, little spitfire!” Sanchez informed her. “I have but come to escort you to the deck. What Barbados wants with you I do not know. Perhaps it is to have you get some fresh air, so you will look pretty when you are delivered to the great man. Ha! You are pretty enough now to suit any man who is not too exacting.”
He turned back toward the door, offering her no affront. And there he waited, as though with deep respect.
“Are you coming?” he demanded. “Barbados is not the man to be kept waiting.”
Once more she curled her lip in scorn, once more her chin was tilted, and she went forward, drawing aside her skirts, and swept past him like a queen leaving an audience chamber. Sanchez grinned and followed her.
Señor Zorro, through the tiny crack, had witnessed this scene. He did not believe that Barbados merely wanted her to take the air. He felt sudden fear for her, and once more his eyes narrowed and seemed to send forth flakes of steel. He scrambled over the boxes and bales toward the little door.
Up the rickety ladder he went and to the hatch, and there he listened for a time, hearing nothing alarming. And then he raised the hatch slowly, an inch at a time, blinking his eyes rapidly at the bright light of the day.