first thought the case appeared hopeless. Those fellows had swept the
sloop clean, and had doubtless long ago scuttled it. This ruthless
deed once accomplished, their orders were to raid the house on the
bluff. But would they go on with their bloody work? They would
suddenly find themselves leaderless, unguided. Would that suffice to
stop them? The vivid memory came to me anew of that arch villain,
Sanchez, lying where I had left him, his head resting in the
surf--dead. Would the discovery of his body halt his followers, and
send them rushing back to their boat, eager only to get safely away?
This did not seem likely. Estada knew of my boarding the sloop from
the wharf, and would at once connect the fact of my being ashore with
the killing of Sanchez. This would satisfy him there was no further
danger. Besides, these were not men to be easily frightened at sight
of a dead body, even that of their own captain. They might hesitate,
discuss, but they would never flee in panic. Surely not with that
ruffian Estada yet alive to lead them, and the knowledge that fifty
thousand pounds was yonder in that unguarded house, with no one to
protect the treasure but two old men asleep, and the women. The
women!--Dorothy! What would become of her? Into whose hands would she
fall in that foul division of spoils? Estada's? Good God--yes! And I,
afloat and helpless in this boat, what could I do?




CHAPTER IX

A SWIM TO THE NAMUR