“No, Harry,” whispered Mrs. Marston, “he is not dead, but badly wounded.”
“Poor Villari... a born sailorman, though an Italian.... Mr. Raymond, Amy... Let him command.... I should have taken his advice... And give him five hundred pounds, Amy.... You, Mr. Raymond, will be entitled to a third of the value of the ship and her cargo... You understand?”
“I will not take a penny,” said Raymond, as he rose. “Now I must be going. But have no fear for the Esmeralda. She will be at anchor in this bay to-morrow morning.”
Marston put his hand gently over towards him, and pressing it softly, Raymond withdrew.
His wife met him at the door. Her dark, Spanishlike face showed traces of tears, but she smiled bravely as he put his arms around her and kissed her.
“Tom, dear, you must not be angry. I have not been crying for fear that something may happen to you if there is a fight with those dreadful men on board the ship—for I am sure that you will come back to me and our little one safe and sound—but I do so pity poor Mrs. Marston, Tom, if Captain Marston dies.”
“I think that there is no possible hope of his recovery, dear.”
“Then she must stay with us, Tom, for some time, until she is stronger. She will need to have a woman's care soon.”
Raymond kissed his wife again. “As you will, Marie; you always think of others. And I shall be very glad if she will stay with us.”
Ten minutes later she walked down to the beach, and watched her husband and Maliê with his followers depart, and then she slowly returned home along a winding path bordered by shaddock trees, whose slender branches were weighted down with the great golden-hued fruit. As she reached the verandah steps a pretty little girl of four years of age ran up to her, and held out her arms to be taken up.