The senor felt his mind much relieved.  He had no wish, of course, to commit the murder himself; for he was a good Catholic, and feared the devil.  But Tita was an Indian, and her being lost did not matter so much.  Indians’ souls were cheap, like their bodies.  So he answered, “But we shall be discovered!”

“I will leap out of the window with the casket, and swim ashore.  They will never suspect you, and they will fancy I am drowned.”

“The sharks may seize you, Tita.  You had better give me the casket.”

Tita smiled.  “You would not like to lose that, eh? though you care little about losing me.  And yet you told me that you loved me!”

“And I do love you, Tita! light of my eyes! life of my heart!  I swear, by all the saints, I love you.  I will marry you, I swear I will—­I will swear on the crucifix, if you like!”

“Swear, then, or I do not give you the casket,” said she, holding out the little crucifix round her neck, and devouring him with the wild eyes of passionate unreasoning tropic love.

He swore, trembling, and deadly pale.

“Give me your dagger.”

“No, not mine.  It may be found.  I shall be suspected.  What if my sheath were seen to be empty?”

“Your knife will do.  His throat is soft enough.”

And she glided stealthily as a cat toward the hammock, while her cowardly companion stood shivering at the other end of the cabin, and turned his back to her, that he might not see the deed.

He stood waiting, one minute—­two—­five?  Was it an hour, rather?  A cold sweat bathed his limbs; the blood beat so fiercely within his temples, that his head rang again.  Was that a death-bell tolling?  No; it was the pulses of his brain.  Impossible, surely, a death-bell.  Whence could it come?

There was a struggle—­ah! she was about it now; a stifled cry—­Ah! he had dreaded that most of all, to hear the old man cry.  Would there be much blood?  He hoped not.  Another struggle, and Tita’s voice, apparently muffled, called for help.

“I cannot help you.  Mother of Mercies!  I dare not help you!” hissed he.  “She-devil! you have begun it, and you must finish it yourself!”

A heavy arm from behind clasped his throat.  The bishop had broken loose from her and seized him!  Or was it his ghost? or a fiend come to drag him down to the pit?  And forgetting all but mere wild terror, he opened his lips for a scream, which would have wakened every soul on board.  But a handkerchief was thrust into his mouth and in another minute he found himself bound hand and foot, and laid upon the table by a gigantic enemy.  The cabin was full of armed men, two of whom were lashing up the bishop in his hammock; two more had seized Tita; and more were clambering up into the stern-gallery beyond, wild figures, with bright blades and armor gleaming in the starlight.

“Now, Will,” whispered the giant who had seized him, “forward and clap the fore-hatches on; and shout Fire! with all your might.  Girl! murderess! your life is in my hands.  Tell me where the commander sleeps, and I pardon you.”