“I cannot tell you just what they are—only I cannot blame my son for loving you. Only you must discard that horrible garment for something presentable.”
“Mother!” shouted Waldo Emerson, as he threw his arms about her. “I knew that you would love her, too, if you ever knew her.”
Just then the door opened and one of the pirates entered.
“Come,” he said.
They filed out past him. From those outside they learned that it had been decided to kill them all and after looting the Priscilla, sink her, as a man-of-war had been sighted cruising off the coast early in the morning. In their terror they had decided to wait no longer for the absent chief, and all thoughts of ransom were forgotten in the mad desire to erase every vestige of their piracy.
The victims looked at one another in horror. They were entirely surrounded by the pirates, and one by one were securely bound that there might be no chance of any escaping. The plan was to lead them inland to the densest part of the jungle and there to cut their throats and leave their corpses to the vultures. The pirates appeared to derive much pleasure in recounting their plan to the prisoners.
At last all were bound and the death march com-
