“Perhaps. If not, I won’t try to find the ship and Captain Cary any more. I have done all I could. If the ship does not come to Panama, I must go back to Cartagena. It is where I belong. I thought I could get away from Cartagena—from something very unpleasant for me—but it is no use. It must be as God wills.”
“Stay away, if it’s as bad as that, Miss Fernandez. All right, we sail first thing in the morning. Homeward bound means better luck sometimes.”
They made a smooth run of it until a thick night with rain and a boisterous wind compelled the small cruiser to reduce her speed. She was tossed about more and more until Captain Truscoe hove to before his decks were swept.
Toward morning, Teresa Fernandez was in the drowsy state between waking and dreaming. She heard a bell. It was distant, almost inaudible. Her heart throbbed painfully as she listened. The sound came to her again, the ghostly whisper of a bell, but deep-toned and familiar. It was like no other bell in all the world, by land or sea.
Was she dreaming? No, this was the stateroom of the yacht, with the water surging against the round ports. After some time, the far-away lament of the galleon bell came to her ears again. It seemed as though its intervals were cadenced, that it was tolling a message which she dreaded to hear. Four bells! Dong-dong—dong-dong!
She could interpret it. Uncle Ramon Bazán was gone. To her had been bequeathed the galleon bell. It was sending her its warning of some impending disaster. It meant that she was fated to return to Cartagena and so accept the penalty for the deed she had done. The bell had been taken from its frame in the patio and carried to sea on the Valkyrie. No matter where the ship might be, she would hear the bell sound its tidings at the appointed time. How could she doubt it? The legend had dwelt among her kinfolk for centuries. It was interwoven in the fabric of her inherited beliefs. And now that she heard the bell, she felt certain she would never see Richard Cary again.
The little stateroom suffocated her. She resolved to go on deck in spite of wind and weather. She dressed and snatched an oilskin coat and sou’wester from a hook. Sliding back the cabin hatch, she crawled out into the welter of rain and spray. The yacht was still hove to, riding buoyantly. Teresa groped her way forward to the wheel-house and wrenched open the door. Beside the hooded binnacle lamp stood Captain Truscoe steadying himself while the flying water swashed against the windows. He grasped Teresa’s arm as he said:
“Lonesome down below? Nothing to worry about. This flurry will blow itself out with daylight.”
“Did you hear a bell?” besought Teresa, trying to speak calmly. “A ship’s bell? No, you would not hear it. The bell was for me and nobody else.”
“I can’t hear much in here. Too much racket outside. What’s this about a bell, young lady?”