llen
in love with him, and had become nearly frantic with grief when he
disappeared. It was difficult to analyze her motives, but she had
undoubtedly freed the eleven sailors, and led them over the rocks at
low water to the haunted cave on Guanaco Hill. The Indians dared not
follow; but they took good care that no canoes were obtainable in which
the unhappy fugitives could reach the ship, and they were confident
that hunger would soon drive them forth.

Courtenay's brow became black with anger when he understood the
significance of this staggering story.

"It comes to this," he said to Christobal. "The men who got away from
the _Kansas_ in No. 3 life-boat fell into the hands of the savages
early on the day of the ship's arrival here. Suarez slipped his cable
that night, being aware at the time that eleven white captives were
still alive. Yet he said no word, not even when he heard that we had
seen one of the boat's water-casks in a canoe. He, a Christian, bolted
and remained silent, while some poor creature of a woman risked her
life, and ran counter to all her natural instincts, in the endeavor to
save the men of his own race. What sort of mean hound can he be?"

Suarez needed no translation to grasp the purport of Courtenay's words.
He besought the senor captain to have patience with him. He had
escaped from a living tomb, and felt that he would yield up his life
rather than return. Therefore, when he saw how few in number and badly
armed were they on board the ship, he thought it best to remain silent
as to the fate of the boat's crew. In the first place, he fully
expected that they had been killed by the Indians, who would be enraged
by his own disappearance. Secondly, he alone knew how hopeless any
attempt at a rescue must prove. Finally, he wished to spare the
feelings of those who had befriended him; of what avail were useless
mind-torturings regarding the hapless beings in the hands of the
savages?

There was a certain plausibleness in this reasoning which curbed
Courtenay's wrath, though it in no way diminished the disgust which
filled his soul. What quality was there lacking in the Latin races
which rendered them so untrustworthy? His crew had mutinied, de
Poincilit was ready to consign his companions in misfortune to a most
frightful death on the barren island, and here was Suarez hugging to
his breast a ghastly secret which chance alone had brought to light.
He strove hard to repress the c