not come
yet, but would shortly, as they sought their silent retreats on the wall
of rocks opposite.

And Captain Brand dreamed, too--of the old laird, his father, in prison;
his mother weeping over forged notes; the sleeping, unsuspecting people
he had treacherously murdered; the pillages he had committed; the men he
had slain in open conflict; those he had executed with his own private
cord; the poor woman who had died in worse torments, when, indeed, even
knife or pistol, rope or poison, would have been a mercy; the agony and
sufferings of those who survived them; with all the concomitant horrors
which make the blood run cold to think of, and which made the pirate's
almost freeze in his veins--living years in minutes--did Captain Brand,
as he lay there on the chill sand in his troubled nightmare of a sleep.

"Ah! _Dios! Dios!_" chattered the Senora Banana Pancha, at the other
outlet to the inlet, rolling over on the ledge of the rocks at the
Tiger's Trap.

"What has become of my Ig--Ig--nacio--the one-eyed old villain who has
persecuted me for forty years? Why did I cut the old launch adrift
before I got in myself? And here I am alone and desolate on this cursed
island, and my Ig--Ig--nacio--bless his spark of an eye--not come back
to me! Ah! _Dios! Dios!_ what has become of the little man? He will kill
me, _cierto_, when he comes back and finds the boat gone with all the
money, which nearly broke his thin back to bring here; but, _Dios!
Dios!_ I am dying of thirst, and not a shred of dried fish or jerked
beef has gone into my old mouth--"

Yes there has, Dona Pancha, for just then a piece of hawser-laid
rope--rather dry, perhaps, for mastication--was placed across your
crying mouth that you might bite upon, if you would only stop your old
tongue.

For while you were screaming on the rocks, and yelling for your
Ig--Ig--nacio, who went back for the last bag of gold that wasn't there,
a light gig glided in like a blackfish, and a bigger blackfish jumped up
and stopped your old mouth, Pancha, with that bit of hide rope. But if
you will keep quiet, Pancha, and not exorcise Banou for the Evil One,
that old nigger will give you a cup of liquid not known in the devil's
dominions, and treat you also to some white biscuit to nibble upon.

Ah! you will, eh? and tell all about that thin curl of smoke, which you
believe to have been made by that coal-eyed Ig--Ig--nacio, away up there
by the inlet? Now keep quiet again, o