Though she spoke with apparent calmness, her heart was thumping so violently that she half fancied he heard it beat. She instinctively knew why the man stared at her so. She noticed that he had not lit the hanging lamp in the usual way, either. Only the faint, flickering glimmers from the lantern that swung by the saloon door and the deck sent its gleams towards them. She could just discern the shadowy-like face of the Rajah sitting opposite her. His voice had become strangely soft and seductive, almost musical: “Do you lover me, one little much, pretty whiter girl?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered hastily in a hushed, frightened voice, hardly knowing what she did say, as she swiftly glanced around and realised her terrible helplessness in that cabin far away on the coral seas. No escape there for her! The glimmer of the seas outside the port-holes only gave her a deeper sense of loneliness, if that were possible. She heard the tramp! tramp! of the watch walking the poop just over their heads as they sat there.
“Let me go to my berth, I’m tired, I want to sleep,” she said softly, as she hastily rose to her feet. The state of her feelings was obvious. The Rajah could almost hear the fluttering of the girl’s heart in that soft, tremulous voice. Standing there with flushed face and her eyes staring with fright, she looked very beautiful. He put his hand out gently and leaned across the table towards her. In her fright she gripped his extended hand. Her hair had fallen down to her neck and shoulders, tumbling in a golden mass, as she lifted her hand and glanced wildly about her. It had been loosened from its neat coil by the flowers that the Rajah had stuck in the glossy folds. The heathen corsair’s vanity was so profound that he imagined the girl had deliberately made her tresses tumble in luring deshabille for his eyes.
A great fire leapt like a blown flame into the man’s eyes. And Gabrielle noticed it. She began to move backwards, very slowly, step by step, in the direction of her cabin door. One of her hands clutched her robe tightly against her trembling figure, as though she would not have him see the way her stealthy feet were moving from his presence. He too had swiftly risen from the cuddy table and was moving with a stealthy, cat-like step towards her. It was like some tragic scene in a drama as she moved backward, her eyes fixed on him, and he followed step by step over the cuddy floor. The girl’s pale face and frightened, alert eyes were reflected in the large saloon mirror as she crept round the table. His taller form sent a monstrous silhouette over the panelled walls, his turbaned head going right across the ceiling. And still she moved on.
Gabrielle had sought to mislead him as to her exact intentions. She made a rush, whipped into her cabin and slammed the door. Not till then did the Rajah realise his mistake in thinking that her tresses had fallen for his benefit.
A look of rage swept across his swarthy face at the way Gabrielle had baffled him. But he knew the way to play the game. In a second he had placed his mouth to the small grating circle that was in the top of her cabin door. “Gabri-ar-le, beloved mine, I do swear not to hurt you; let me comer in,” he whispered. “Why you rush away from me like that?” he added in an injured tone. He did not wish to raise his voice. He knew there was a possibility of the girl screaming when she realised the full import of his wishes. He had no desire that the crew should know that he was a rank outsider so far as the white girl’s affections were concerned. He had loved to walk the schooner’s deck, his chest swelling with that pride that dark men feel when a white woman is theirs; he also knew that his Kanaka crew envied him his saloon quarters, where they knew the lovely white girl dwelt.
“Don’t try to come in! You dare not! Leave me alone. I want to sleep,” replied Gabrielle, as he continued softly and persistently to knock at the cabin door.
He heard the trembling note of appeal in her voice. “I swear by the gods of my land and the stars of your own that should you open the door and let me kiss your hand no harm shall come to you.”
He heard Gabrielle smash something heavy against the door. It was the reply to his appeal. His voice took on a rougher tone, he was evidently getting impatient. “If you don’t let me in I’ll smash the door down; it’s my ship!” he said in a threatening undertone, then swiftly added: “But, sweeter girl, if you let me in I swear to keep my promise.”
Gabrielle glanced round her berth. Not a weapon was handy. She was trembling. “Perhaps he speaks the truth,” she thought.