For a few minutes he kept them at bay. 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. "Wasn't he in some way connected with the Jacobite plots?" "He was," replied Thames. Jackson’s. She moaned as he buried himself completely to the hilt. ‘Did it indeed?’ ‘I should think he’s guessed, don’t you?’ ‘Without any doubt at all.
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