None of the pirates was in sight. Señor Zorro slipped out and dropped the hatch covering, whipped out his blade, and crept through the little passage toward the spot from where the deck of the ship could be viewed.
He was in time to see the señorita piloted across the deck to where Barbados was standing alone. The crew were forward, some sleeping sprawled on the deck, others leaning against the rail watching the antics of the flying fish.
Barbados whirled and stood with arms akimbo, regarding her narrowly. She faced him bravely, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Señorita,” the pirate said, “queer things happened during the night. I would question you concerning them.”
“Is it necessary?” she asked.
“By my naked blade, it is!” he roared. “I am not to be treated like a dog by you or any of your ilk. This is my ship, and here I am sole master, and it would be well for you to remember it.”
“I am quite sure none other would desire the mastery of her,” the señorita replied.
“You have a biting tongue,” Barbados said. “I would hate to be your husband. Else that tongue were tamed by love, it would be a hot dish to have continually.”
She turned away from him and gazed across the sea. He took a step nearer her.
“Is this Señor Zorro aboard?” he demanded suddenly.