She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. “Now I suppose Brendon understands exactly what you mean,” he remarked. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. I ought never to have thought of it. My business is with Lady Trafford. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. “Very likely,” he answered. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. Wild is sure to be up.
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