"Oh, what of that! I was at the riverside just below the palacio, Señor Strawbridge, where the white boat lay. I went down because the Cock told me I could find some driftwood there, and I had no money to buy charcoal...."
The phrase "white boat" moved some memory that was battened down in Strawbridge's heart. It gave him a ghastly sensation, as if an arm were reaching out of a grave. And there was something disconcerting in the rancor in the crone's voice, in the circumstantiality with which she began her account. He stood looking at her, wondering and rather fearing what she was about to say.
"What's the point to this?" he hesitated at last. "What if you were at the river—under the palacio?"
The charwoman found enough spirit to shrug.
"No matter how grand your final object may be, señor, I think that was going a little too far. There are certain things a Spanish caballero will not do, señor—no, not though he gain all Venezuela by it!"
The drummer took a step nearer the old woman, and looked hard at her.
"Look here, Consolacion," he uttered in a strained voice, "what—in—the—hell—are—you—talking—about?"
The ancient shrugged again, and the nostrils of her hatchety old nose dilated momentarily, then she burst out:
"Dios mio! I am talking about the señora, poor Doña Dolores, whom I found down there—poor lamb!—frightened almost to death, and weeping. She started to fly as I came up, but I called to her and she knew I was a woman...."