Silva was delighted to find his captain alive and ready for the high seas again. He asked no questions concerning his adventures until more than one bottle of wine had been emptied, and the captain's travel-stained garments had been exchanged for the best the cabin lockers contained. Miwandi, too, was reclothed; and the beauty and softness of the silks that were presented to her fairly turned her little head. She did not know that the fair French lady for whom they had been made, in gay Paris, and who had worn them only three months ago, was somewhere in the dredge of emerald tides between the Bahaman reefs. She knew only that the texture and colours delighted her skin and her eyes. So, in her narrow room, she attired herself in the finery, toiling at the ties and lacing with unfamiliar fingers.
In the captain's cabin D'Antons motioned to his friend to close the door. He had consumed a soup, and was still engaged with the wine. Silva returned to his seat at the table, after a final reassuring push on the bolt of the door. It is always wise to be sure that the door you considered fastened is fastened indeed. Then, with their elbows on the table and their heads close together, the more salient incidents of D'Antons' sojourn in the wilderness were rehearsed and keenly listened to. Silva displayed a prodigious indignation at the story of the captain's failure to win the affections of Mistress Westleigh. At word of Sir Ralph's death (and the murder became a desperate duel in the telling), a crooked smile of satisfaction distorted his face. As to what he heard of Kingswell—ah, but oaths in two languages were quite inadequate for the expression of his feelings.
"We'll inspect the heart of that cockerel—and the gizzard as well," said he, and drank off his wine.
"Leave him to my hand," replied D'Antons, darkly.
Silva nodded, with a sinister leer.
"So it's 'bout ship and blow the little stockade into everlasting damnation," he said.
"Ay, but the lady must come to no harm in the attack," warned the captain.
So the Cristobal headed northward, and the evil-looking rascals of her crew were informed that the morrow would bring them some work to limber their muscles. The information was received with cheers, in which hearty English voices were not lacking.
However, in the early morning, Fate, in the shape of the Heart of the West, turned the danger away from the little fort.
"She looks like a likely prize," said D'Antons, when he sighted the ship. The old fever awoke in his blood. He longed for the old excitement.