A DEAD PIRATE.
Sanchez and some of the others shrieked in terror. Barbados, cursing
loudly, strode to the middle of the deck, whirled around, brandished
his cutlass as though he would have fought the world. He would not
admit to himself that this thing was getting on his nerves, but he
glanced anxiously toward the land and wished for the dawn. He drove the
men to finish their work, grasped Sanchez roughly by the arm, and led
him aside.
“Understand,” he said, “either this Señor Zorro is aboard in some
mysterious fashion, or else there is a traitor among us playing this
Zorro’s part.”
“A ghost――” Sanchez began.
“Another word of ghosts, and I run you through!” Barbados warned. “The
men are silly fools, but you are supposed to have some sense, being
second in command. When the day comes we search the ship; and if we
find this Señor Zorro in hiding we deal with him in a way he will not
relish. He is one man against many!”
Sanchez shivered and raised a trembling hand to his flaming forehead.
The blood had streamed down his cheeks from the wound Señor Zorro had
put there; and Señor Zorro, on his way to his hiding place, had paused
for an instant to watch this comedy――had paused, and so was lost to
caution.
Back along the rail he hurried and from the tub he took some of the
bolts. Up into the rigging he went like a monkey, until he was over the
deck. He braced himself, took careful aim, and once more the bell rang
out.
The pirates whirled toward it, and Barbados took a step forward, an
oath rumbling from his lips, while Sanchez screeched and tried to hide
behind the mast. Señor Zorro hurled another bolt, and this one struck
Sanchez on his shoulder. He cried out again and fled across the deck.
Another bolt hurtled through the night, and this time Barbados felt
the blow on the back of his neck. The screeches of Sanchez drowned the
noise of the bolt falling to the deck. The pirate chief whirled upon
the men nearest.
“Some one is playing tricks!” he shrieked. “If I find the man doing
it――”
The bell rang again. It was too much for the pirates. They rushed
toward the rail and stood there, white of face and shivering, clutching
at their breasts, looking out into the black night as though they
expected some demon to come riding toward them on a breath of breeze.
Señor Zorro went down the rigging swiftly, for the first streak of
dawn was showing over the land and stealing across the sea. Along the
rail he rushed, reached the little hatch, and let himself down. A few
minutes later he was safe among his boxes and bales in the storeroom.
He crept across to the tiny crack through which he had whispered to
the _señorita_; but he could not see her where she was sitting on the
bunk――could see only straight ahead.
“_Señorita!_” he whispered.
“Zorro!”
“Safe again, _señorita_. I have been playing with these babies of
pirates.”
“Be not rash, else I call you Don Diego,” she said.
“How can I be Señor Zorro, and not rash?” he wanted to know. “The dawn
is coming. Have you rested?”
“I could not sleep,” she replied. “There were thoughts of you, and of
other things.”
“But now I guard,” he whispered. “Sleep, and I will watch.”
She started to make reply, but instead she hissed a warning. Heavy
steps had sounded outside the cabin door. She heard the bar being
removed. And then the door was opened and one of the pirates stood in
it, grinning, a torch in his hand.
“I have brought food,” he said, “at the chief’s command.”
Señorita Lolita’s lips curled in scorn as she looked at him.
“Do you think I would eat it?” she asked.
“It is the chief’s command. You are to be kept well fed and pretty as
the prize of some great man.”
“You may take your food away again!”
“And have the chief slit my throat for not carrying out his orders?”
the man asked. “Do you take me for a fool?”
He stepped into the little cabin and closed the door behind him. And
then she saw that he carried a bottle of wine and half a cold fowl.
She gasped as she looked at the wine, for there was a label upon the
bottle, and it bore the stamp of her father’s _hacienda_.
It returned to her with a rush――memory of her father being struck down,
of her home in flames, of her weeping mother crouched over her father’s
body. She gave a little cry and reeled back against the wall.
“Leave me!” she commanded. “Out!”
The man leered and stepped toward her. She darted away from him, horror
in her eyes. He put the bottle and fowl down upon the bunk.
“I leave the food and drink, pretty wench,” he said. “You may use it or
throw it through the porthole into the sea――it is all the same to me.”
“Out!” she cried again.
“You do not like me?” he asked, getting closer to her. “Many women
have. You are not to be spoiled being the prize of some great man, but
a kiss will not spoil you. Never have I kissed a wench with proud blood
in her veins. It will be something to remember and boast about!”
Now she crouched against the wall, her heart pounding at her ribs, her
breath coming in little gasps. Her eyes were dilated with terror.
“Out!” she said, though her fear reduced her screech to a mere whisper.
“Your master shall know of this!”
That sobered him for a moment, but the picture of her pretty self was
before him, tantalizing him, tormenting him. He reached out a hand to
clutch her. She could retreat no further. She put up her tiny hands as
though to beat him back.
“What is a kiss?” he asked, laughing. “I would not harm you――only a
kiss!”
“I would rather die!” she gasped.
“For that I shall take two――a dozen! Proud wench, are you? Ha!”
He grasped her wrist and started pulling her toward him. She lurched
backward, fought with what strength she could, felt that she was about
to swoon, and realized that she must not. He followed her, reached out
the other hand to grasp her better.
And like the darting of a snake’s tongue came the sword of Zorro
through the crack in the wall. In and out it darted with the swiftness
of thought. The _señorita_, reeling back against the wall, felt herself
released, saw the pirate sag before her, to his knees, topple forward,
and collapse at her feet.
Terror-stricken, she looked down at him, her eyes bulging wide. Blood
flowed from his breast and formed a pool on the floor of the cabin. A
hiss from the other side of the partition brought her to her senses.
She realized, then, that Zorro’s blade had done this thing to save her
an indignity.
“_Señorita!_”
“_Sí?_” she questioned.
“Take the fellow’s dagger from his girdle! Dip it in the blood on the
floor! Have courage and act quickly! ’Twill appear as though you did it
when he offered you insult!”
She realized what he meant, and was quick to obey. She needed the blood
of the Pulidos to aid her now. Stooping, she reached out a hand and
grasped the hilt of the dagger in the dead man’s belt. She drew it out,
shuddered, turned her head away for a moment, faint at the sight of the
blood.
“Courage!” Zorro’s whisper reached her ears. “And make haste,
_señorita_! Some man may come!”
Now came the thing that tested her courage. But she felt that the eyes
of Señor Zorro were upon her. Again she bent forward, and she bathed
the blade of the dagger in the pool of blood upon the floor. Then she
sprang to her feet, holding the dagger in her hand, her face white.
“Open the door,” Zorro whispered from beyond the partition, “and
shriek!”
She hurried to the door, shuddering as she pulled her skirts away from
the dead man. She opened it, and peered out. And the shriek that she
gave was no acting, but the sudden outpouring of what she felt.
There was a moment of silence, and she shrieked yet again. And down
from the deck tumbled Barbados, rage in his face. He looked at her and
at the dagger in her hand. He thrust her aside and stepped into the
cabin.
“So!” he said. “What has happened here?”
“A lady of my blood does not suffer insult!” she said.
“Ha! The dog forgot his instructions, did he? ’Tis well that he is done
for! You have saved me a task!” Barbados declared. He turned and looked
full at her. “A wench of spirit!” he said. “I have half a mind to keep
you for my own!”
Back to the door he went, and shouted to those above. Two men came
rushing down. Barbados yelled commands at them, and they carried the
dead man away. Another brought water in a pail, and dashed it over the
floor to wash the blood down the cracks.
Barbados turned and looked at her again. “You may keep the beast’s
dagger for a souvenir,” he said. “Let me clean it for you.”
She surrendered it willingly. Barbados wiped the blade on his trousers,
bowed, and handed it back to her.
“Take it!” he urged. “Use it when you will, if there are others who
try to disobey my commands. You are to be delivered, unspoiled, to a
certain man. Failing that, I claim you for myself. And put out the
torch when I have gone. The day is here!”
He went out and closed the door, and once more the heavy bar was
dropped into place. Señorita Lolita tossed the dagger from her, hurried
to the bunk, and collapsed upon it. Her senses seemed to be reeling.
She forgot to extinguish the torch.
“_Señorita!_” Zorro whispered from beyond the partition.
But she made him no reply. The terrors of the night had taken their
toll. She had swooned at the dawning of the day.