Part 53 (1/2)

”Sheer nonsense, my dear. Any one can shout 'Villain, avaunt!' and prance across the sand, but there wasn't any pleasant excitement about looking Boris Bothwell in the eye and telling him to shoot and be hanged. That took sheer, cold, unadulterated nerve, and my hat's off to the three of them.”

She leaned toward me out of the shadow, and the light in her eyes was wonderful.

With all the innocence of a Grecian nymph they held, too, the haunting, wistful pathos of eternal motherhood.

She yearned over me, almost as if I had been the son of her dreams.

”Boy, Jack, I'm glad it's over--so glad--so glad. I love you--and I've been afraid for you.”

Desire of her, of the sweet brave spirit in its beautiful sheath of young flesh, surged up in my blood irresistibly.

I caught her to my heart and kissed the soft corn-silk hair, the deep melting eyes, the ripe red lips.

By Heaven, I had fought for her and had won her! She was the gift of love, won in stark battle from the best fighter I had ever met.

The mad Irish blood in me sang.

After all I am not the son of a filibuster for nothing.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN HARBOR

The morning found me as good as new except for a dull ache in my shoulder. I was up betimes for breakfast and ready for sh.o.r.e duty.

Yet I was glad to accept Blythe's orders to stay on board as long as we remained in Darien Harbor.

It was good to avoid the sun and the mosquitoes and the moist heat of the jungle, though I felt a little guilty at lying in a hammock on the shady side of the deck with Evelyn at my side, while my friends were perspiring in the burning sand pits with shovel and pick.

Fortunately, it was only a few hours before the last of the boxes buried by Bucks was uncovered. Jamaica Ginger's hatchet found it a good fifty yards from the others. Within an hour it had been dragged out of the dirt and brought aboard.

We sailed the same afternoon about twelve hours later than the schooner, which had quietly slipped past us on its way to the sea in the faint light of early dawn.

That Fleming had given up the attempt to win the treasure was plain. I doubt whether his men would have followed him even if he had wished it, for he had not the dominant temper of his chief.

We dropped anchor under the lee of a little island in the Boco Chico, but our engines were throbbing again by break of day. As we puffed across the North Bay we pa.s.sed the schooner almost within a stone's throw.

Henry Fleming was on deck, and half a dozen of the blacks and browns who made up the crew swarmed to the side of the vessel to see us. Blythe had made quiet preparations in case any attempt at stopping us should be made, but apparently nothing was farther from the thoughts of the enemy.

In fact several of the dusky deck hands waved us a friendly greeting as we drove swiftly past. From that day to this I have never seen any member of that crew, though a letter received last week from Gallagher--who is doing well in the cattle business in the Argentine--mentioned that he had run across Henry Fleming at Buenos Ayres.

Out of the Gulf of San Miguel we pushed past Brava Point as fast as Stubbs could send the _Argos_. The lights of Panama called to us. They stood for law and civilization and the blessed dominance of the old stars and stripes.

We were in a hurry to get back to the broad piazzas of its hotels, where women at their ease did fancy work and played bridge while laughing children romped without fear.

Adventure is all very well, but I have discovered that one can get a surfeit of it.