Then followed the crosses and names of the men, as in the Round Robin. I burst into a laugh. Heartsick as I was, this stroke of farce, happening in the great tragic occasion of that time, proved too much for me. I put the paper in my pocket.
“At what do you laugh?” said the lady Aurora.
“At a piece of Dutch humor,” said I, laughing again.
She looked eagerly, and wished to know if the crew had done anything to please me—anything to lighten my anxiety.
“They have given me two tons of silver,” said I with a sneer, pointing down that she might understand me.
She shrugged her shoulders, and asked no more questions about the crew’s bond. I reckoned she saw in my face as much as she was interested to hear. I observed her fine eyes fixed upon the stand of muskets and cutlasses and watched her; not speculating on her thoughts, merely observing her face. I beheld no marks of anxiety in her handsome features, of such passions of uneasiness and continued distress as you would look for in a woman situated as she was. The glass in poor Greaves’ cabin had assured me that what had befallen us had not sweetened or colored my own visage. I was growing long of face; yellowing daily, and my eyes had sunk. This Spanish girl, on the other hand, was still bright and spirited with all the health she had regained aboard us. I watched her while she looked at the weapons; she turned her face slowly upon mine, and our eyes met.
“Why,” she exclaimed—and now began one of those brief conversations which I am forced to put into plain English for reasons I have given you—“why, Señor Fielding, do not you lock away those swords and firearms?”
“Why should I lock them away?”
“The crew may take them.”
“What then?” said I, “we should be no worse off. I am alone: forward are ten stout, determined men; armed or unarmed, ’tis all one.”