It was Framtree who tore her loose, and tightened upon her wrist until the fingers opened and the little knife—­concealed how long in her hair?—­dropped like a feather to the carpet.  Swiftly it had let out the life of the Spaniard....  Bedient opened the galley-door at a gesture from the woman.  The Chinese came forth.

“It was I—­your mistress, Boy—­who killed the Senor.  You may look.  Then fix him quickly, so he will sink.  I want him to sink!” she panted.

Bedient waited for Framtree to look up.  The eyes of the two men met.

“The first and last chance of war in Equatoria is eliminated,” Bedient said.

Presently he moved out of the cabin, and sat down beside Miss Mallory.  Each had held out a hand to the other, but they had not words.

The place was being made clean within....  The Glow-worm could not be silent, muttered constantly to the Chinese. “...  You shall go back to South America with me.  I shall be very good to you....  Oh, do open some wine, Boy!  I am so very thirsty!” and on, until she saw the face of Framtree, moodily watching.  She sank into a chair shuddering, and covered her face.  “Don’t look at me so horribly!” she cried.  “Ask Senorita Mallory about it—­ask her about me.”

He jerked up, but did not answer at once.  The Glow-worm screamed at him to speak.

Framtree crossed the cabin, and dropped his huge hand upon her shaking shoulder.

“I have nothing to say, Senora....  It was a matter between you and him....  But I’m glad to help you.  It bowled me over a little, that’s all.”

His voice was big in the hush that had fallen upon the cabin....  Framtree helped the Chinese carry forth the weighted body....  As it paused for an instant on the gunwale, the searchlight from Jaffier’s gunboat flicked athwart the Savonarola—­sinister tableaux in its ghostly light....  Without a sound the Glow-worm fell backward to the cabin floor, as if touched by the finger of the Destroying Angel.  Bedient worked upon her until consciousness was restored.

“What next in this terrible night?” Miss Mallory asked in an awed voice, when Bedient rejoined her.

“Such an end has hung over him for more years than we have lived,” he said.  “I call it rather wonderful—­as it came about.  Hundreds of men will continue to live because of this death.  It means an end of war-making, the release of this turbulent spirit.”

Bedient turned to the light.  She saw the red stain upon the breast of his coat.

He glanced down, and felt in the inner pocket.  “It’s the red chalk,” he said with a laugh.  “It got crushed somehow, and it was oily.  The forecastle melted it.”

...Plainly at this moment they both heard the sound of a steamer’s screw—­ahead.  But there were no lights.  Bedient took the wheel and brought the Savonarola sheering away to the south of the sound, which had stopped abruptly.