“Is he asleep?”
“Yes: but the casket is under his head.”
“Curse him! How shall we take it?”
“I brought him a fresh pillow half-an-hour ago; I hung his hammock wrong on purpose that he might want one. I thought to slip the box away as I did it; but the old ox nursed it in both hands all the while.”
“What shall we do, in the name of all the fiends? She sails to-morrow morning, and then all is lost.”
Tita showed her white teeth, and touched the dagger which hung by the intendant’s side.
“I dare not!” said the rascal, with a shudder.
“I dare!” said she. “He whipt my mother, because she would not give me up to him to be taught in his schools, when she went to the mines. And she went to the mines, and died there in three months. I saw her go, with a chain round her neck; but she never came back again. Yes; I dare kill him! I will kill him! I will!”
The señor 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.