When he saw her dark form and shining eyes rising up before him out of the darkness, he started back, bringing his hands up before his face.
Nan seized her opportunity and without a thought of the possible consequences dropped her staff and darting forward wrenched the knife out of his nerveless grasp and plunged at his throat.
Nan was a strong woman, and the knife, glancing on the Spaniard’s collar-bone, turned and slipped down into his neck, cutting the jugular vein.
A choking exclamation, “Doña Maria,” fell from his lips, a rush of blood stifled all other words, and he dropped on the dry stones as dead as the girl he had left in the Ship’s kitchen.
Nan heard them and laughed bitterly.
“Maria!” she muttered. “You may well call on her. Here, this is thine; take that with thee to hell, you slithering coward,” and bending down she slipped the twice-stained knife into the slim white fingers.
Then she straightened her back and looking up, became aware of Hal Grame’s tall figure standing not two feet away, his eyes fixed upon her.
They stood quite still for several seconds, neither speaking, and then Gilbot hurried out of the door. The shock had sobered him for once in his life.
Seeing Hal, he broke out excitedly:
“Have you seen him, lad? Have you caught him? Where is the ruffian?”