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Dominic pointed at the sea, where the guardacosta was a mere dark speck. His chin dropped on his breast. ". . . On information," he murmured, in a gloomy voice. "A Cervoni! Oh! my poor brother! . . ." "And you drowned him," I said feebly. "I struck once, and the wretch went down like a stone with the gold. Yes. But he had time to read in my eyes that nothing could save him while I was alive.
The vastness of the open sea was smothered in driving mists, and in the centre of the thinning squall, phantom-like, under a frightful press of canvas, the unconscious guardacosta dashed on, still chasing to the northward. Our men were already descending the reverse slope to look for that punt which we knew from experience was not always to be found easily.
After more than half an hour of swaying immobility expressing a concentrated, breathless watchfulness, Dominic sank on the deck by my side. Within the monkish cowl his eyes gleamed with a fierce expression which surprised me. All he said was: "He has come out here to wash the new paint off his yards, I suppose." "What?" I shouted, getting up on my knees. "Is she the guardacosta?"
The strangers had seen the Good Hope, and had managed to draw from them the information that those on board were English and Dutch. On hearing this, their captors had despatched two of their party up the river, where a Spanish guardacosta lay at anchor.
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