Gently she withdrew her hand from my grasp. She had forgotten my presence; now she intentionally ignored me.
Across the waste of water and drift came to my ears a sound so shudder-inspiring that I in turn forgot Fidette. It was unlike any of the strange noises sometimes heard in the wakeful watches of the Sargasson night, defying rational explanation. It was music—demon music! I, too, put my ears apeak, and I needed not to listen long to detect in slow and plaintiff measure the rhythm of the Portuguese national hymn.
Fidette’s face told me the rest. Her first lover was alive.
The trombone player had escaped.
CHAPTER XII.
AGONY OF A JEALOUS HEART.
I always disliked the trombone.
Fidette remained in the same ecstatic, absent-minded condition until we separated—I to pass a most wretched and unhappy night.
Alone with my thoughts, I marveled at the complete possession that this pretty Sargasson girl had obtained of my heart, and realized that I must decide promptly whether I meant to continue the contest for her affection or surrender to an unknown and unseen rival. This latter proposition was too repugnant to be considered.
Evidently this Portuguese, this Fernandez, was unworthy of Fidette. By every token he ought to have been dead. If his vessel had been scuttled, as Fidette believed it had been, it was his duty to have gone down with the ship. If he were a brave man and worthy of a good girl’s love, he would be dead; the very fact that he was still alive, and playing the infernal instrument, was proof positive that he was a cowardly fellow, unworthy of any woman’s love.