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. Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort.
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