As soon as the word was passed down to the engine-room Johnny Kent sought the bridge and his eyes filled with tears as he exclaimed:
“It don’t seem right, Cap’n Mike. I ain’t reconciled to it one mite. He deserved to have what he wanted.”
“Yes, he had slipped his cable, Johnny. There are cruel tricks in this game of life.”
“What will you do now?”
“I have had no time to think. But one thing is certain. I will carry King Osmond to his island, and there we will bury him. ’Tis the one place in all the world where he would want to rest. And the peaks of Trinadaro will guard him, and the big breakers will sing anthems for him, and he will be the king there till the Judgment Day.”
The Tarlington slowly approached the precipitous coast-line and changed her course to pass around to the lee of the island. As the deeply indented shore opened to view, and one bold headland after another slid by, a comparatively sheltered anchorage was disclosed.
There, to the amazement of Captain O’Shea, rode two small cruisers. One of them flew the red ensign of England, the other the green and yellow colors of the navy of Brazil. He guessed their errand before a British lieutenant came alongside the Tarlington in a steam-launch and climbed the gangway which had been dropped to receive him.
Gazing curiously at the silent company and the half-masted flag of Trinadaro, he was conducted into the saloon, where Captain O’Shea waited for him to state his business.
“This steamer belongs to Colonel Sydenham-Leach, I presume,” said the visitor. “I should like to see him, if you please. Sorry, but I have unpleasant news for him.”
“If it is King Osmond of Trinadaro ye mean, he is dead, God rest his soul! He went out last night.”