I said, “You’re too Irish mysterious for me to understand. But you’ve a choice of four evils for me—choose yourself.”
He continued with a quivering, taut good-humour: “Prove to me she’s dead, and I’ll let you die sharply and mercifully.”
“You won’t believe!” I said; but he took no notice.
“I tell you plainly,” he smiled. “If we find... if we find her dear body—and I can’t help; but I’ve men on the watch all along the shores—I’ll give you up to your admiral for a pirate. You’ll have a long slow agony of a trial; I know what English justice is. And a disgraceful felon’s death.”
I was thinking that, in any case, a day or so might be gained, the Lion would be gone; they could not touch her while the flagship remained outside. I certainly didn’t want to be given up to the admiral; I might explain the mistaken identity. But there was the charge of treason in Jamaica. I said:
“I only ask to be given up; but you daren’t do it for your own credit. I can show you up.”
He said, “Make no mistake! If he gets you, he’ll hang you. He’s going home in disgrace. Your whole blundering Government will work to hang you.”
“They know pretty well,” I answered, “that there are queer doings in Havana. I promise you, I’ll clear things up. I know too much....”
He said, with a sudden, intense note of passion, “Only tell me where her grave is, I’ll let you go free. You couldn’t, you dare not, dastard that you are, go away from where she died—without... without making sure.”
“Then search all the new graves in the island,” I said, “I’ll tell you nothing.... Nothing!”