"I should like to remain here, Señor. Perhaps she may come to-night. Who knows? Perhaps the good God will send her. He knows that I—cannot—bear—it, I can not bear—" The child's voice broke in a sob.
Silencio's kindly nature was touched. "Take him round to Guillermina, Andres, and get dinner; both of you."
The two disappeared in the darkness.
Then Piombo brought a flaring Eastern lamp, at which Don Gil relighted his often extinguished cigarette.
"How still the night! How far a sound would carry on a night like this." The padre had but just uttered these words when a long, booming sound struck upon the listening as well as the unexpectant ear.
Silencio bounded from his chair. He caught up a cloak which was lying conveniently ready.
"A steamer ashore!" he shouted. The old padre struggled to his feet. "Do not come. Go round to the quarters. Send the men to help. It must be at the sand spit. Follow me to the headland," and he was gone in the darkness. The padre wondered somewhat at Silencio's suspecting at once the locality of the stranded steamer, if that were the cause of the gun of distress. As he wondered, it spoke again, and gathering his wits together, he hastened round to the quarters.
Silencio bounded along the camino and up the cliff pathway. His feet seemed winged. The familiar local knowledge of childhood stood him in good stead at this crucial moment. He reached the staff. It was short work to release the cord and lower the lantern, extinguish the light, replace the red slide with a white one, and hoist the darkened signal in place again. Then he turned and ran quickly down the sandy bank.
"Now the light has simply gone out," he said to himself as he ran. His boat was where Andres had left it, the rising water making it just awash. A glance seaward showed to Silencio a steamer's lights. There came to him across the water bewildered shouts, the sounds of running feet, and evidences of confusion. He pushed his boat into the water, and bent to the oars. The steamer was, at the most, not more than a quarter of a mile distant. He pulled with desperation. He heard the sound of the foam as the propeller turned over, and he feared that with every revolution the vessel would back off into deep water. When he rowed alongside he was not noticed in the dark and confusion of the moment. He held his long painter in his hand, and as he climbed up over some convenient projections of the little vessel, fastened it securely.
He drew himself up hurriedly to the taffrail, and slid down to deck, mixing with the crew. He looked about now for the bewitching cause of the disaster. Some dark forms were standing by the companion door, and going close he discovered her whom he sought. He laid his hand on her arm to draw her away. At first she started fearfully, but even in darkness love is not blind, and she hurriedly withdrew with him to the side of the vessel.