“Yes, they took to the boats—­Manuel with them.”

“Manuel!” his enunciation clearer from passion, “the sneaking cur.  But I cannot see your face; who are you, and what brought you here?”

“I’ll tell you frankly, Captain Sanchez,” and I stepped closer.  “We risked coming aboard to save that chest—­Roger Fairfax’s chest—­before it went down.  This vessel has its back broken, and may slide off into deep water at any minute.  We must get you out of here first.”

“Get me out!” he laughed hideously.  “You pretend to place my safety ahead of that treasure.  To hell with your help.  I want none of it.  I am a dead man now, and the easiest way to end all, will be to go down with the ship—­’twill be a fit coffin for Black Sanchez.  By God!  I know you now—­Geoffry Carlyle?”

“Yes, but an enemy no longer.”

“That is for me to say.  I hate your race, your breed, your cursed English strain.  The very sound of your name drives me mad.  I accept no rescue from you!  Damn you, take your gold and go.”

“But why?” I insisted, shocked at the man’s violence.  “I have done you no ill.  Is it because I interfered between you and Dorothy Fairfax?”

He laughed again, the sound so insane Haines gripped my sleeve in terror.

“That chit! bah, what do I care for her but as a plaything.  No, my hate runs deeper than that.  How came you here—­in the boat stolen from the Namur?”

“No Captain Sanchez.  The day after we left the ship, we boarded a schooner found adrift, the crew stricken with cholera, with not a man left alive on deck, or below.  She lies yonder now.”

“A schooner!  What name?”

“The Santa Marie—­a slaver.”

“Merciful God!” and his eyes fairly blazed into mine, as he suddenly forced his body upward in the bunk.  “The Santa Marie adrift! the crew dead from cholera?  And the Captain—­Paradilla, Francis Paradilla——­what of him?”

“He lay alone on a divan in the cabin—­dead also.”

He tried to speak, but failed, his fingers clawing at his throat.  When he finally gained utterance once more, it was but a whisper.

“Tell me,” he begged, “there was no woman with him?”

I stared back into the wild insanity of his eyes, trying to test my words, suddenly aware that we were upon the edge of tragedy, perhaps uncovering the hidden secret of this man’s life.

“There was no woman,” I said gravely, “on deck or in the cabin.”

“What mean you by saying that?  There was one on board!  Don’t lie to me!  In an hour I am dead—­but first tell me the truth.  Does the woman live?”

“No, she died before.  We found her body in a chest, preserved by some devilish Indian art, richly dressed, and decked with jewels.”

“English?”

“I judged her so, but with dark hair and eyes.  You knew her?”

“In the name of all the fiends, yes.  And I know her end.  He killed her—­Paradilla killed her—­because she was as false to him as she had been to me.  Hell! but it is strange you should be the one to find her—­to bring me this tale, Geoffry Carlyle!”