"Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. "Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. A silence ensued. ‘That’s wicked, that is. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. Come along, master. .
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