“Yes,” she said, wondering a little whether or not Christobal’s veiled hint regarding a by-gone tenderness between the two might account for Isobel’s hysterical outburst on the night of the ship’s break-down. Indeed, so warm-hearted was she that she hesitated a moment before continuing; but she felt that it would be altogether better for Isobel to be prepared for the revelations which the successful end of the ship’s voyage would assuredly bring forth. So, pondering unspoken thoughts the while, she told the others exactly what Tollemache, Christobal and Courtenay had said, and even revealed to them that which Courtenay himself did not yet know. “You remember the poor fellow who got into trouble soon after we sailed from Valparaiso?” she said. “His name is Frascuelo. He was wounded again in last night’s fight, but not seriously, and he and I are quite chums. He assures me that he was drugged by a man named José Anacleto, who took his place among the coal-trimmers—” “Oh, Miss Maxwell, come quick!” screamed Mrs. Somerville, for Isobel had lurched sideways out of her chair in a fainting fit, and the missionary’s wife was barely able to save her head from striking the ship’s rails. Joey was shot out of Elsie’s lap with such surprising speed that he trotted away without any exhibition of lameness. He was quite disgusted, for at least five minutes, but it is reasonable to suppose that a dog of his intelligence would brighten up when he heard the wholly unlooked-for story which Christobal was translating to Courtenay, word for word, as it was dragged hesitatingly out of Suarez. The Argentine miner had been badly injured during the struggle for possession of the promenade deck. Owing to loss of consciousness, supplemented by an awkward fall, he might have choked to death had he not been rescued within a few minutes. He was very ill all night, and it was not until midday that he recovered sufficient strength to enable him to question the Indians on board. Courtenay wished specially to find out what chance, if any, there was of the Alaculof attack being renewed. When Christobal assured him that Suarez might safely leave his bunk, he asked the doctor to bring the Spaniard to the fore-cabin, in which the wounded savages lay under an armed guard. It was obvious that some of the maimed wretches recognized Suarez, notwithstanding his changed appearance, the instant he spoke to them. At once they broke out into an excited chattering, and Suarez was so disconcerted by the tidings they conveyed that he stammered a good deal, and seemed to flounder in giving the Spanish rendering. “This fellow is telling us just as much as he thinks it is good for us to know,” said Courtenay, sternly, when the interpreter avoided his accusing gaze. “Bid him out with the whole truth, Christobal, or it shall be his pleasing task to escort his dear friends back to their family circles.”