“Then,” said the black-bearded man and spat toward them, “I will take you as a present to those who are.”
He stood off and regarded them. Joan with the child sat on the earth, in the hot sunlight. The child’s terrified crying had hushed; in her mother’s arms she had sobbed herself to sleep. She lay half covered by Joan’s skirt, shadowed by her mother’s bending breast and face. The Spaniard’s countenance twisted until it was like a gargoyle’s for cruelty and ungenial mirth. Without a word he stooped and with one great slashing stroke of his dagger slew the child....
They bound Joan, and she lay at last, prostrate upon the earth, her forehead touching the child’s still feet. Aderhold sat beside the dead and the living love.... Around was heat and glare, huge suffering, brute indifference, brute triumph, life brought low, life iron-shod trampling life, a battlefield of instincts, a welter of emotions, tendencies in impact, old and deep ideas opposed to ideas ... and all with which he and Joan were ranged in time and space,—their stream and current—here and now, as often before and often to come, the loser, the loser drowning in defeat.... He felt the wide cold, the check, the bitter diminishing, felt it impersonally for the enormous current, the stream where there were so many drops; then, because he was man, felt it for this childish people, felt it, a bitter and overwhelming tide, for himself and Joan. Woe—woe—there was so much woe in living....
All the rest of that day the enslaved brought food and rolled casks of water for the ships. When night came they were let to sleep, lying on the ground, in a herd. Now and again through the darkness rose a sharp cry of grief, or ran from one to another a sobbing and groaning. But the most slept heavily, without movement. Dawn came, and the slaves were roused. They were permitted to eat a little food—and then they were driven to the shore and into the boats.... Their dead, their village, their island were severed from them. They were left naked to the beating of new tides....
Joan and Aderhold were put upon the ship with the darker sails—the ship that had come first to the island. The hold of this ship was inexpressibly, fearfully crowded with the enslaved. When the hatches were closed, it was a black pit, a place of gasping, fighting for breath. When morning came the Spaniards, seeing that otherwise much of their property would die and become no man’s property, drew out several score and penned them in a narrow space upon the deck. Aderhold and Joan were brought forth with the others, driven here with them, pressed by the mass close against the ship’s side.
Day crept away, sunset came. The island where they had dwelled was long fallen from sight. Out of the sea before them, though as yet at some distance, rose the shape of an outermost islet of this group. When that should be passed, there would lie an expanse of ocean, and, at last, driving south, would rise the great island to which they were bound. The sun dipped below the horizon, but over against it rose the round and silver moon. By its light could be seen the strengthening outline of the last island, at length the very curve of surf, the beach and sombre palms.
Aderhold moved, touched Joan who sat as if in a trance. About them many of the Indians had fallen asleep or lay, beaten down to a half-consciousness. At no great distance were the guards. But these had no fear now of that cowed shipload, and so paid little attention. Amidships and forward were Spaniards enough, but these talked and swore or gamed among themselves or gazed at the island without lights by which they were slipping. Aderhold bent and whispered in Joan’s ear. For a moment she sat motionless; then slowly the mind returned and became active, though through dark veils of woe.
She nodded. “Yes, yes! Let us go! If we die we may find her.”
“Wait until that cloud is between us and the moon.”