"Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. Too late. 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. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back.
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