Anny, who was standing near Black’erchief Dick, caught her breath.
“Lord! ’Tis Pet Salt,” she whispered as she shrank against the table.
The Spaniard dropped a hand over hers unnoticed by any one save Hal—“Why shudderest thou, wench?” he said softly. Anny slipped her hand away.
“’Tis naught,” she said.
“Will ’ee spare a little rum, fair gentlemen?”
The old woman came a little farther into the room, disclosing a body so bent and twisted as to be hardly human. She came nearer, the firelight flickered on her, and a murmur rose from the company, she was so ragged and scarred. The Spaniard looked at her critically, then he turned to French.
“You have strange crones up this part of the Island, friend,” he observed.
French laughed.
“Oh, this one won’t treat your almsgiving the way Nan Swayle did,” he said.
At the sound of the name, Nan Swayle, an extraordinary change came over the terrible old figure in the firelight. She straightened herself with a fearful effort and, her small eyes blazing with fury, broke forth into such a stream of horrible epithets that the rough company of the Ship looked at one another shamefacedly.