“The night his wife was ordered out of the country she was allowed to say good-by to him in the fortress, and there she arranged that every night at sunset she and her daughters would look toward Port Cabello, and he would look toward Curaçao. The women bought a villa on the cliff, to the left of the harbor of Willemstad as you enter, and the people, the Dutch and the Spaniards and negroes, all know the story, and when they see the three women on the cliff at sunset it is like the Angelus ringing, and, they say, the people pray that the women may see him again.”
For a long time Peter de Peyster sat scowling at the prison, and Roddy did not speak, for it is not possible to room with another man through two years of college life and not know something of his moods.
Then Peter leaned toward Roddy and stared into his face. His voice carried the suggestion of a challenge.
“I hear something!” he whispered.
Whether his friend spoke in metaphor or stated a fact, Roddy could not determine. He looked at him questioningly, and raised his head to listen. Save for the whisper of the waves against the base of the fortress, there was no sound.
“What?” asked Roddy.
“I hear the call of the White Mice,” said Peter de Peyster.
There was a long silence. Then Roddy laughed softly, his eyes half closed; the muscles around the lower jaw drew tight.
Often before Peter had seen the look in his face, notably on a memorable afternoon when Roddy went to the bat, with three men on base, two runs needed to win the championship and twenty thousand shrieking people trying to break his nerve.
“I will go as far as you like,” said Roddy.