Because Bruce Dunvegan held the upper hand and wanted Desirée Lazard as he wanted nothing else on earth, they marveled that he did not get rid of the prisoner and marry her. Behind the screen of hundreds of miles of forest they had seen the thing done many times before, and no one in the outside world was the wiser.
"He goin' crazy eef somet'ing don' be happen," whispered Baptiste Verenne, one night when the winter had nearly run its course.
"'Tis always a woman as raises the divil," announced Terence Burke. "Oi was engaged wanst meself, an' Rosie O'Shea niver gave me a minnit's peace till the day she bruk it."
"Hold on there," Connear cried. "You mean you never gave her a minute's peace. 'Twould be South Sea hell to live with you, Terence—even for a man!"
"Ye ear-ringed cannibal," returned Terence belligerently. "Divil a woman would live wid ye, fer she'd be turned to rock salt by yer briny tongue."
Connear stuck out the offending member beneath his pipe stem.
"No woman will ever have the chance to do it," he declared. "I've been in a few ports in my time. I've had my lesson."
"Now you spik," smiled Baptiste. "You be t'ink of dat tale you told 'bout dat native girl w'en your boat she be stop at—w'at you call?—dose Solomon Isle!"
"Yes," the ex-sailor replied. "Made love to me in the second watch and stabbed me in the back with one hand to leave the way clear for her tribe to murder the crew and loot the vessel."
"Oi didn't hear that, Peter," Burke prompted. "Go on wid it."