“Whistle away!” he muttered; then resumed, as if no one had interrupted:  “Very good of you, Gilly.  But with your permission, I see five points.—­Here’s a rough sketch, made some time ago.”

He tossed on the table a sheet of paper.  Forrester spread it, frowning, while the others leaned across or craned over his chair.

“All out of whack, you see,” explained the draughtsman; “but here are my points, Gilly.  One:  your house lies quite inland, with four sides to defend:  the river and marsh give Rudie’s but two and a fraction.  Boats?  Not hardly:  we’d soon stop that, as you’ll see, if they dare.  Anyhow,—­point two,—­your house is all hillocks behind, and shops roundabout:  here’s just one low ridge, and the rest clear field.  Third:  the Portuguese built a well of sorts in the courtyard; water’s deadly, I dare say, but your place has no well whatever.  And as to four, suppose—­in a sudden alarm, say, those cut off by land could run another half-chance to reach the place by river.—­By the way, the nunnery has a bell to ring.”

Gilbert Forrester shoved the map along to his neighbor, and cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen,” he declared slowly, “you once did me the honor to say that in—­in a certain event, you would consider me as acting head.  Frankly, I confess, my plans were quite—­ah!—­vague.  I wish to—­briefly, to resign, in favor of this young—­ah—­bachelor.”

“Don’t go rotting me,” complained Heywood, and his sallow cheeks turned ruddy.  “I merely bring up these points.  And five is this:  your compound’s very cramped, where the nunnery could shelter the goodly blooming fellowship of native converts.”

Chantel laughed heartily, and stretched his legs at ease under the table.

[Illustration:  Portuguese Nunnery:—­Sketch Map.]

“What strategy!” he chuckled, preening his moustache.  “Your mythical siege—­it will be brief!  For me, I vote no to that:  no rice-Christians filling their bellies—­eating us into a surrender!” He made a pantomime of chop-sticks.  “A compound full, eating, eating!”

One or two nodded, approving the retort.  Heywood, slightly lifting his chin, stared at the speaker coldly, down the length of their council-board.  The red in his cheeks burned darker.

“Our everlasting shame, then,” he replied quietly.  “It will be everlasting, if we leave these poor devils in the lurch, after cutting them loose from their people.  Excuse me, padre, but it’s no time to mince our words.  We made them strangers in their own land.  Desert ’em?  Damned if we do!”

No one made reply.  The padre, who had looked up, looked down quickly, musing, and smoothed his white hair with big fingers that somewhat trembled.

“Besides,” continued the speaker, in a tone of apology, “we’ll need ’em to man the works.  Meantime, you chaps must lend coolies, eh?  Look here.”  With rising spirits, he traced an eager finger along the map.  “I must run a good strong bamboo scaffold along the inside wall, with plenty of sand-bags ready for loopholing—­specially atop the servants’ quarters and pony-shed, and in that northeast angle, where we’ll throw up a mound or platform.—­What do you say?  Suggestions, please!”