CHAPTER XXXIV
ON THE TRAIL AGAIN
Sally had spent the long afternoon gazing offshore for a sight of the longboat, or watching the still motionless needles of masts pricking the sky above the headland that guarded South Harbour. So slowly passed the time, it seemed to her mind, stored with the Biblical lore of her childhood, as if the onward march of the sun had again been halted by the old warrior of Israel, while he advanced towards the white walls of the cloud city in the west.
But no mighty trumpets rang. Everything was so still. Sometimes, startled by the mere whisper of the trees back of the tent, the crackle of a twig as a heavily freighted armadillo moved or a serpent glided into the underbrush, she turned her head in alarm towards the wood. They were all harmless sounds, but her nerves and imagination, tuned to higher than concert pitch by the events of the night, translated them into voices of the spirits of the isle, or the footfalls of the murderers themselves, bent on some further deeds of darkness.
The gypsy, seeing her distraction, forbore from his depressing auguries and tried to cheer her with new tales and improvised songs, while Yeo drowsed before the tent, but the taut nerves would not relax.
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