“I love him!” she told the sea and the sky and at that moment she asked herself what she had to offer with that love.

It was a moment of self-revelation, of humiliation far lower than anything she had experienced physically. It was a humiliation of the soul, of feeling that she was useless and empty, with nothing to give to any man except a pretty face and a well-made body.

“No wonder he finds only one use for women,” she whispered and went down into the purgatory of her own conscience.

All that evening, as she sat on deck or relieved Evans at El Diablo’s side, she condemned herself and the emptiness and fruitlessness of her life until now.

Her money had brought her new possessions but no new interests. She had done nothing with her millions, neither good nor evil, and that was perhaps more reprehensible than anything else.

When it grew late, Evans insisted that she went to her own cabin for four hours’ sleep, promising that he would call her to take his place so that he could rest in his turn.

Skye found it hard to relax, but eventually she drifted away into a restless slumber.

There were dreams occurring and recurring, in which always she was lost, lonely and afraid.

She woke to the sound of her alarm clock, for she had not trusted Evans not to take the whole burden of nursing upon himself.

She jumped out of her bunk, thankful to escape from her dreams and, putting on her dressing gown, she went into the cabin to find Evans watching his patient.

“He’s a bit restless, miss,” he told her. “Perhaps I’d better stay.”

“You go and lie down, Evans. I will manage. If I am at all worried, I will ring the bell for you.”

“You promise that, miss?”

“Yes, of course I promise,” Skye smiled.

He went away reluctantly and Skye sat down at El Diablo’s side. The drug was wearing off, he was moving about in bed as if he was uncomfortable, his head turning from side to side. One of the bedside lamps was lit, but shaded so that she could see his face while there was no chance of the light disturbing him.

She rose to prop his pillow in a more comfortable position. As she did so, he opened his eyes.

For a moment he stared with the dazed look of a man who comes back slowly to consciousness and then in a low and husky voice he asked,

“Where am I?”

“Aboard my yacht,” Skye answered. “You have been wounded and we are going to – Montevideo to find a doctor for you.”

“Wounded?” He said the word reflectively and added, “I remember now. They shot Marcos who came to warn us of a trap.”

“That’s right,” Skye said. “There must have been men hidden a little further up the street.”

“Did the others get away safely?”