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 several nights past instead of reading or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible—he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honor.

Linda, laying her thin, brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he w r as. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing.

"No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me—quite of himself that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!"

She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white mustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humored—his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "Maybe. Maybe," he mumbled.

She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenden and the jealous rage of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her.

"Listen—you." she said, roughly.

The invincible candor of the gaze raised up all violet and dew, her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes—the chica—this vile thing of white