Suddenly I heard a cry of anguish such as I trust never to hear again. It was the voice of my lady! I looked up. She was darting toward me, her beautiful hair flying wildly in the breeze, the rosary in her outstretched hand.
"Ninety-six!" Again the lash fell.
"Ninety-seven!" But now she was beside me—she had flung herself between me and the descending lash. I heard the sailors cry out. The executioner whisked his lash aside by so narrow a margin that the tip of one of the thongs left a crimson weal across her white forehead.
"God!" cried the officer. There was a moment's breathless pause. Then he called harshly, "Mademoiselle, stand aside. There are yet three strokes."
"Strike if you dare!" she cried. "I am here to defend him! Strike me!"
"Mademoiselle, I would not force you away. But if I send for Captain Powers—"
"Send!" she cried. "Poder de Dios! This gentleman is my betrothed husband!"
There was a gleam above my head, and the blade of a little dagger slashed through the lashings which bound my wrists to the mast. I attempted to turn, but tottered, and my knees bent and doubled beneath me. I should have fallen headlong had she not eased me to the deck with her arm across my naked, sweaty, blood-streaked breast.
She knelt beside me, and drew my head against her knee. Then all again became black.