Yet more shrill, before their mood could alter, the
Pretty Lily scourged them with the tongue of a humorous woman. She held
her course, moreover; the two boats drifted so quickly apart that when
she turned, to fling a comic farewell after the white men, they could no
more than descry her face, alert and comely, and the whiteness of her
teeth. Her laughing cry still rang, the overthrown leader still
floundered in the water, when the picture blurred and vanished. Down the
wind came her words, high, voluble, quelling all further mutiny aboard
that craft of hers.
"We owe this to you." The tall padre eyed Rudolph with sudden interest,
and laid his big hand on the young man's shoulder. "Did you catch what
she said? You made a good friend there."
"No," answered Rudolph, and shook his head, sadly. "We owe that to--some
one else."
Later, while they drifted down to meet the sea and the night, he told
the story, to which all listened with profound attention, wondering at
the turns of fortune, and at this last service, rendered by a friend
they should see no more.
They murmured awhile, by twos and threes huddled in corners; then lay
silent, exhausted in body and spirit.
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