“Forgive you! What have you done that calls for forgiveness?”
“There are errors of speech which equal those of conduct, Miss Maxwell.”
“Oh, what nonsense—at one in the morning—when we are threatened by savages!”
Christobal was relieved that she took this view of his abrupt utterances. He thought the incident was ended. He was mistaken; Elsie was able to recall each word subsequently. At the moment she was recording impressions with uncomprehending accuracy, but her mind was quite incapable of analyzing them; that would come later.
The lantern was brought. Courtenay stood on the lowermost rail, and carefully paid out a rope to which the light was slung. He was far too brave a man to take undue risks. He was ready to shoot instantly if need be, and, by his instructions, Tollemache and Walker kept watch as best they could in case other canoes were lying close to the ship.
Any doubt in this regard was dispelled in a singular manner. The flickering rays of the lantern had barely revealed the primitive craft lying alongside when a voice came from the depths, crying in broken Spanish:
“Don’t shoot, señors—spare me, for the love of heaven! I am a white man from Argentina.”
Christobal and Elsie alone understood the exact significance of the words. Courtenay, of course, knew what language was being spoken, and it was easy to guess the nature of the appeal. But the lantern showed that the canoe was empty. In the center lay the Fuegian fire, its embers covered with a small hide. The pole, fastened to a cross-piece in the thwarts, was not a mast, but had evidently been shipped in order to give speedy access to the deck by climbing.
Then Courtenay caught sight of two hands clinging to the stern of the canoe. He swung the lantern in that direction, and an extraordinary, and even an affrighting, object became visible. A caricature of a human head was raised slightly above the level of the water. It was crowned by a shock of coarse, black, knotted hair, tied back from the brows by a fillet of white feathers. An intensely black face, crossed by two bars of red and white pigment, reaching from ear to ear, and covering eyelids, nose, and lips, was upturned to the watchers from the deck. The colors were vivid enough, notwithstanding the sheets of rain which blew in gusts against the ship’s side, dimming the dull light of a storm-proof lamp, to convey a most uncanny effect; nor did Courtenay remove either his eyes or the revolver while he said to Christobal:
“Ask him who he is, and what he wants.”