“I, for one, think some consideration might have been shown him,” said Elsie.
“There is no time for argument when a Chilean draws a knife, Miss Maxwell.”
“But, if his story is true—”
“There never yet was a stowaway who did not invent a plausible yarn. Nevertheless, I believe, and Mr. Boyle agrees with me, that the man is not lying.”
They felt the ship swing round on a new course, and the rays of the setting sun lit up the saloon table through the open starboard ports.
“Due south now, ladies!” cried Dr. Christobal cheerily. “We have rounded Cape Cardones. We practically follow the seventy-sixth degree until we approach Evangelistas Island. Thus far we are in the open sea. Then we pick our way through the Straits discovered by that daring Portuguese, Fernando de Magallanes, to whose memory I always drink heartily once we are clear of the Cape of the Eleven Thousand Virgins. I never pass through that gloomy defile without marveling at his courage, and thinking that he deserved a better fate than murder at the hands of some painted savage in the Philippines. Peace be to his ashes!”
And the doctor lifted his glass of red wine with a quasi-masonic ritual which lent solemnity to his discourse.
“You are a long way ahead of your toast,” said Isobel.
“Just as Magellan was ahead of his times,” was the rejoinder.
“Yet he was a man of leisurely habit,” put in Elsie, who found Dr. Christobal’s old-world manners full of charm and repose.