‘And yet it might be true!’ said she.
‘And even then I would not believe it,’ I answered.
‘Did he explain how it was that all that gold lay hidden in a poor ship like the Spanish brigand—brig—whatever you call it?’ she asked, her curiosity as a woman dominating for a moment all other considerations which might grow out of that yarn.
‘No,’ said I; ‘nor would I inquire. It is giving one’s self needless trouble to dissect the fabric of a dream.’
‘Poor wretch! But how frightful to be in a ship commanded by a madman! What object has he in telling you this secret?’
‘He wants me to help him recover the treasure;’ and I then related the man’s proposals.
She gazed at me with so much alarm that I imagined her fear had rendered her speechless.
‘You tell me,’ she cried, ‘that you have consented to sail with him to this island of his in—in—the Pacific? Are you as mad as he is, Mr. Dugdale? Do you forget that I look to you to protect me and help me to return home?’
Her eyes sparkled; the colour mounted to her cheek, her bosom rose and fell to the sudden gust of temper.
‘I am surprised that you do not see my motive,’ I exclaimed. ‘Of course I feigned to fall in with his views. My desire is to get to Rio as soon as possible, and ship with you thence for England.’