CHAPTER XII
PRISONER AND CAPTOR
WHEN the heels of the Sally had put so great a distance between herself and her pursuers that there was nothing to fear of their overhauling her, Bras-de-Fer went below to the cabin. Exhausted by the events of the night, leaning listlessly against the sill of the stern-port, was Mistress Clerke, her lids drooping with weariness as she struggled against tired nature to keep her lone vigil. Her eyes started wide at the sound of his footsteps. She struggled to her feet and stood, her face pallid and drawn, in the cold, garish light of the morning. She scanned him eagerly, peering fearfully into his face for any portentous sign. The dust of battle was still streaked upon it, and the shadows under the brows which had made his countenance forbidding in the mad flush of war upon the San Isidro now only gave the shadows
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