“If a husbandman has to do with a tiller I may claim some expert knowledge, Miss Maxwell.”
Elsie dared not meet his eyes; a flood of understanding had suddenly poured its miraculous waters over her. Incidents unimportant in themselves, utterances which seemed to have no veiled intent at the time, rushed in upon her with overwhelming conviction. Christobal suspected her of flirting with Courtenay, and disapproved of it as strongly as she herself had condemned Isobel’s admitted efforts in the same direction. Though not a little dismayed, she resolved to carry the war into the enemy’s territory.
“Why are you looking so glum, Dr. Christobal?” she demanded. “Has the captain’s quip given you a shock, or is it that you are surprised at my levity?”
“I am neither shocked nor surprised, Miss Maxwell. I have not lived fifty years in this Vale of Tears without being prepared for the unexpected.”
“Does that imply that you are disillusioned?”
“By no means. My heart is amazingly young. ‘There is no fool like an old fool,’ you know.”
“Oh, please don’t speak of age in that way. You are far from being an antiquity. Why, within the past twenty-four hours I have come to look on you as a sort of elder brother, who can be indulgent even while he chides.”
Courtenay found himself wondering what had caused this flash of rapiers. But, so far as he was concerned, the proceedings of the Indians put a stop to any further share in the conversation. The canoe had drifted closer to the ship. It was about eighty yards distant when the Indian who was on his feet suddenly whirled a sling, and sent a stone crashing through the window of the music-room. The heavy missile, which, when picked up, was found to weigh nearly half a pound, just missed Tollemache, who was the first to take note of the sharp warning given by Suarez, but failed, nevertheless, to dodge quickly enough.
The captain raised a double-barreled fowling-piece, the only gun on board, and fired point blank at the savages. But the women were paddling away vigorously, and the shot splashed in the water on all sides of the canoe, though a howl and a series of violent contortions showed that one, at least, of the pellets had stung the wizened Indian whom Suarez believed to be a newcomer.
There was no second shot—cartridges were too precious to be wasted at an impossible range—but the undeniable fact remained that the Indians meant to be aggressive. For a little time no one spoke. They heard the echoes of the gunshot faintly thrown back by the nearest wall of rock; the regular plash of the paddles as the canoe sped shorewards was distinctly audible. They watched the tiny craft until it vanished round the wooded point which concealed Otter Creek. Then, to add to the sense of loneliness and peace conveyed by the placid bay and the green slopes beyond, a big whale rolled into view in the middle distance, and blew a column of water high in air.