Page:In the Roar of the Sea.djvu/293

Rh Bless me!" Oliver sprang up and paced the room. "It makes my blood seethe. The fellow deserves no consideration. Give him up to justice; let him be hung or transported."

Mr. Menaida passed his hand through his hair, and lit his pipe.

"Pon my word," said he, "there's a good deal to be said on your side—and yet——"

"There is everything to be said on my side," urged Oliver, with vehemence. "The man is engaged on his nefarious traffic. Winter is setting in. He will wreck other vessels as well, and if you spare him now, then the guilt of causing the destruction of other vessels and the loss of more lives will rest in a measure on you."

"And yet," pleaded Menaida, senior, "I don't know—I don't like—you see——"

"You are moved by a little sentiment for Miss Judith Travisa, or—I beg her pardon—Mrs. Cruel Coppinger. But it is a mistake, father. If you had had this sentimental regard for her, and value for her, you should not have suffered her to marry such a scoundrel, past redemption."

"I could not help it. I told her that the man was bad—that is to say—I believed he was a smuggler, and that he was generally credited with being' a wrecker as well. But there were other influences—other forces at work—I could not help it."

"The sooner we can rid her of this villain the better," persisted Oliver. "I cannot share your scruples, father."

Then the door opened and Judith entered.

Oliver stood up. He had reseated himself on the opposite side of the fire to his father, after the ebullition of wrath that had made him pace the room.

He saw before him a delicate, girlish figure—a child in size and in innocence of face, but with a woman's force of character in the brow, clear eyes, and set mouth. She was ivory white; her golden hair was spread out about her face&mdash;blown by the wind, it was a veritable halo, such as is worn by an angel of La Fiesole in Cimabue. Her long, slender, white throat was bare; she had short sleeves, to the elbows, and bare arms. Her stockings were white, under the dark-blue gown. Oliver Menaida had spent a good many years in Portugal, and