"That's just it--too pretty! Too pretty to be alone--or anything
except what she is."

Dextry growled sourly. "This country has plumb ruined you, boy.
You think they're all alike--an' I don't know but they are--all
but this girl. Seems like she's different, somehow--but I can't
tell."

Glenister spoke musingly:

"I had an ancestor who buccaneered among the Indies, a long time
ago--so I'm told. Sometimes I think I have his disposition. He
comes and whispers things to me in the night. Oh, he was a devil,
and I've got his blood in me--untamed and hot--I can hear him
saying something now--something about the spoils of war. Ha, ha!
Maybe he's right. I fought for her to-night--Dex--the way he used
to fight for his sweethearts along the Mexicos. She's too
beautiful to be good--and 'there's never a law of God or man runs
north of Fifty-three.'"

They moved on, his vibrant, cynical laughter stabbing the girl
till she leaned against the yawl for support.

She held herself together while the blood beat thickly in her
ears, then fled to the cabin, hurling herself into her berth,
where she writhed silently, beating the pillow with hands into
which her nails had bitten, staring the while into the darkness
with dry and aching eyes.