“I could not keep him back,” she said, “and I am afraid he runs some risk of being hit. Do you think he will go to the chart-house? That is so exposed—Captain Courtenay is not there, is he?”
“No. I left him a moment ago, close to the saloon entrance.”
She listened intently. Her imagination led her astray, it was so hopelessly on the wrong tack.
“There does not appear to be so much stone-throwing now, but I suppose I ought not to go on deck?” she cried.
“It is not to be thought of, Miss Maxwell. Indeed, the captain asked me to come and bear you company.”
“Just fancy those horrid Indians venturing to approach the ship to-night after the dreadful lesson they received this afternoon! And what will poor Señor Suarez say? He was so positive that they would never come near us after dark.”
“I saw him, also, on the promenade deck,” answered Christobal quietly. “He had very much the semblance of a false prophet.”
The Spaniard meant to meet grim fate with a jest on his lips. He had seen Suarez lying dead or insensible close to the rails. In fact, the unlucky Argentine was only separated by the thickness of the ship’s deck from the table near which Elsie was standing. Unless he were speedily rescued he would bleed to death.
“Ah, I heard Joey barking. He has gone aft,” cried Elsie. “And what is that?” she added, moving suddenly towards the center of the saloon. She had caught the fierce hiss of steam, and she was well aware that steam would only be brought into use if the Indians were endeavoring to climb the ship’s sides: not yet had it occurred that they could possibly be on board.
“Some of our friends the enemy have come near enough to be scalded,” said the man, coolly. “That should soon drive them away. You are not frightened, I hope?”