To their waiting ears there came at last a series of low bumping sounds, as of someone moving heavy objects across a floor.
“They are shifting the cargo. Getting ready to unload, perhaps to-night,” Mona’s words came short and quick.
“But look!” said Dot a moment later. “A boat.”
“Rifles in cases,” said Mona.
“On such a moonlight night, would they dare?”
“It is a deserted spot. The goat has been sacrificed. The terrible work must be begun.”
“Then,” said Curlie, “we are too late.”
As the full meaning of all this came to Dot she felt herself stifled with emotion. Rifles and ammunition would be unloaded. Somewhere there would be an attack. Peaceful, happy people would be driven from their homes.
“Perhaps,” she told herself, “it will be our village. Perhaps our home, our most beautiful home where the pink roses bloom in the garden and the nightingale sings in the cool of the evening.”
The thing seemed impossible. The air about her was so still, the bay so placid. Haiti had been so peaceful. And yet the history of Haiti is a story of many revolutions.