For some seconds there is silence between the plotters. Again breaking it, Hernandez says:
“I don’t like the idea of our putting the old gentleman to death. Is there no other way we could dispose of him?”
“Pah, hombre! You’re always harping on the strings of humanity; striking discordant sounds too. There’s no other way by which we can be ourselves safe. If we let him live, he’d be sure to turn up somewhere, and tell a tale that would get both our throats grappled by the garrota. The women might do the same, if we didn’t make wives of them. Once that, and we can make exhibit of our marriage certificates, their words will go for nought. Besides, having full marital powers, we can take precautions against any scandal. Don Gregorio has got to die; the skipper too; and that rough fellow, the first mate—with the old blackamoor cocinero.”
“Maldita! I don’t feel up to all that. It will be rank wholesale murder.”
“Nothing of the sort—only drowning. And we needn’t do that either. They can be tied before we scuttle the ship, and left to go down along with her. By the time she sinks, we’ll be a long way off; and you, my sensitive and sentimental friend, neither see nor hear anything to give your tender heart a horror.”
“The thought of it’s enough.”
“But how is it to be helped? If they’re allowed to live, we’d never be out of danger. Maybe, you’d like to abandon the business altogether, and resign thought of ever having the pretty Iñez for a wife?”
“There you mistake, amigo. Sooner than that, I’ll do the killing myself. Ay, kill her, rather than she shall get away from me.”
“Now you’re talking sense. But see! What’s up yonder?”
The interrogatory is from seeing a group of men assembled on the fore-deck, alongside the hatch. The sky cloudless, with a full moon overhead, shows it to be composed of nearly, if not all, the Condor’s crew. The light also displays them in earnest gesticulation, while their voices, borne aft, tell of some subject seriously debated.