brave attempt at absolution, the woman had fainted.
Now she opened her eyes, although she was not yet fully conscious.

"Water!" she gasped feebly, and as it chanced the boatswain had a small
bottle of the precious fluid hanging from a strap over his shoulder.
There was no pity in the heart of the pirate, he would have allowed the
woman to die gasping for water without giving her a second thought, but
when he recognized her--or thought he did--there instantly sprang into
his mind a desire to make sure. If she were the person he thought her
she might have information of value. Unslinging the bottle and pulling
out the cork, he placed it to her lips.

"I--die," she murmured in a stronger voice. "A priest."

"There is none here," answered the boatswain. "Fra Antonio--he absolved
you."

"Where is he?"

"Dead, yonder."

"But I must confess."

"Confess to me," chuckled the old man in ghastly mockery. "Many a woman
has done so and----"

"Art in Holy Orders, senor?" muttered the woman.

[Illustration: The moonlight shone full upon her face, and as he stooped
over he scanned it with his one eye.]

"Holy enough for you. Say on."

"Fra Antonio, now," she continued, vacantly lapsing into semi-delirium,
"he married us--'twas a secret--his rank was so great. He was rich, I
poor--humble. The marriage lines--in the cross. There was a--What's
that? A shot? The buccaneers. They are coming! Go not, Francisco!"

Hornigold, bending an attentive ear to these broken sentences lost not a
word.

"Go not," she whispered, striving to lift an arm, "they will kill thee!
Thou shalt not leave me alone, my Francisco--The boy--in Panama----"

It was evident to the sailor that the poor woman's mind had gone back to
the dreadful days of the sack of Panama. He was right then, it was she.

"The boy--save him, save him!" she cried suddenly with astonishing
vigor. The sound of her own voice seemed to recall her to herself. She
stopped, her eyes lost their wild glare and fixed themselves upon the
man above her, his own face in the shadow as hers was in the light.

"Is it Panama?" she asked. "Those screams--the shots--" She turned her
head toward the city. "The flames--is it Panama?"

"Nay," answered the one-eyed fiercely. "'Tis twenty-five years since
then, and more. Yonder city is La Guayra. This is the coast of
Venezuela."

"Oh--the doomed town--I remember--now--I stabbed myself rather
than--place the ladders. Who art thou, senor?"