Charity pointed to the big
chair in the sunlight.
"This will probably be hard for you two," she warned them frankly. "If
you get tired, don't hesitate to tell me. I'll give you a rest every ten
minutes. Val, you sit down in the chair. Slump over toward that arm as
if you were about finished. No, more limp than that. Now look straight
ahead. You are on the terrace of Beauvallet. Beside you is the girl you
love. You are all that stands between her and the black rebels. Now take
this sword in your right hand and the pistol in your left. Lean forward
a little. There! Now don't move; you've got just the pose I want. Ricky,
crouch down by the side of his chair with your arm up so that you can
touch his hand. You're terrified. There's death, horrible death, before
you!"
Val could feel Ricky's hand quiver against his. Charity had made them
both see and feel what she wanted them to. They weren't in the peaceful
sunlight on the terrace of Pirate's Haven; they were miles farther south
in the dark land of Haiti, the Haiti of more than a hundred years ago.
Before them was a semitropical forest from which at any moment might
crawl--death. Val's hand tightened on the sword hilt; the pistol butt
was clammy in his grip.
Rupert had put up the easel and laid out the paints. And now, taking up
her charcoal, Charity began to sketch with clear, clean strokes.
Her models' unaccustomed muscles cramped so that when they shifted
during their rest periods they grimaced with pain.
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