Courtenay's brow became black with anger when he understood the

significance of this staggering story.

"It comes to this," he said to Christobal. "The men who got away from

the Kansas in No. 3 life-boat fell into the hands of the savages

early on the day of the ship's arrival here. Suarez slipped his cable

that night, being aware at the time that eleven white captives were

still alive. Yet he said no word, not even when he heard that we had

seen one of the boat's water-casks in a canoe. He, a Christian, bolted

and remained silent, while some poor creature of a woman risked her

life, and ran counter to all her natural instincts, in the endeavor to

save the men of his own race. What sort of mean hound can he be?"

Suarez needed no translation to grasp the purport of Courtenay's words.

He besought the señor captain to have patience with him. He had

escaped from a living tomb, and felt that he would yield up his life

rather than return. Therefore, when he saw how few in number and badly

armed were they on board the ship, he thought it best to remain silent

as to the fate of the boat's crew. In the first place, he fully

expected that they had been killed by the Indians, who would be enraged

by his own disappearance. Secondly, he alone knew how hopeless any

attempt at a rescue must prove. Finally, he wished to spare the

feelings of those who had befriended him; of what avail were useless

mind-torturings regarding the hapless beings in the hands of the

savages?

There was a certain plausibleness in this reasoning which curbed

Courtenay's wrath, though it in no way diminished the disgust which

filled his soul. What quality was there lacking in the Latin races

which rendered them so untrustworthy? His crew had mutinied, de

Poincilit was ready to consign his companions in misfortune to a most

frightful death on the barren island, and here was Suarez hugging to

his breast a ghastly secret which chance alone had brought to light.

He strove hard to repress the contempt which rose in his gorge, as it

was essential that the broken-spirited miner should not be frightened

out of his new-born candor.

"Ask him to ascertain if the Indians believe the white men are still

living?" he said. A fresh series of grunts and clicks elicited the

fact that the smoke-column seen the previous day on Guanaco Hill had

not been created by the tribe. Suarez begged the señor captain to

remember that he had spoken truly when he declared that its meaning was

unknown to him. Probably, from what he now learnt, the girl who threw

in her lot with the sailors had built a fire there.

Courtenay turned on his heel and quitted the cabin. The smell of the

Indians was loathsome, the mere sight of Suarez offensive. For this

discovery had overcast the happiness of his wooing as a thunder-cloud

darkens and blots the smiling life out of a fair valley. There rushed

in on him a hundred chilling thoughts, each gloomier than its

forerunner. Ravens croaked within him; misshapen imps whispered evil

omens; his spirit sat in gloom.




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