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. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. Jack now carefully closed the shutters, while Blueskin struck a light, with which he set fire to a candle. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly.
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