"The Flag of Distress" (continued 7)

Davis, auger in hand, stands in readiness to bore the hole; waiting for the first officer to give the word.

But something stays the latter from giving it, as the former from commencing the work.

It is a thought that seems to occur simultaneously to both, bringing their eyes up to one another’s faces, in a fiancé mutually interrogative. Blew is the first to put it in speech.

“Dang me, if I like to do it!”

“Ye’ve spoke my mind exact, Mr Blew!” rejoins Davis. “No more do I.”

“’Tan’t nothing short of murder,” pursues the chief mate. “An’ that’s just why I an’t up to it; the more, as there an’t any downright needcessity. As I sayed to them above, I can see no good reason for sinking the ship. She’d sail right out, an’ we’d never hear word o’ her again. An’ if them to be left ’board o’ her shud get picked up, what matters that to us? We’ll be out o’ the way, long afore they could go anywhere to gi’e evidence against us. Neer a fear o’ their ever findin’ us—neyther you nor me, anyhow. I dare say, Davis, you mean to steer for some port, where we’re not likely to meet any more Spaniards. I do, when I’ve stowed my share o’ the plunder.”

“Yes; I’m for Australia, soon’s I can get there. That’s the place for men like me.”

“There you’ll be safe enough. So I, where I intend goin’. And we’ll both feel better, not havin’ a ugly thing to reflect back on. Which we would, if we send these three poor creeturs to Davy’s locker. Now, I propose to you what you heerd me say to the rest: let’s gi’e them a chance for their lives.”

“And not do this?”

As he puts the question, Davis points his auger to the bottom of the ship.

“There an’t no need—not a morsel o’ good can come from sinkin’ her. And not a bit harm in lettin’ her slip.”

“What will the others say?”

“They won’t know anything about it—they can’t unless we tell ’em. And we won’t be the fools to do that. As I argied to them, with the wind off-shore, as ’tis now, she’ll scud out o’ sight o’ land long afore daylight. Bill Davis! whatsomever the others may do, or think they’re doin’, let’s me an’ you keep our consciences clear o’ this foul deed. Believe me, mate, we’ll both feel better for’t some day.”

“If you think they won’t know, I’m agreed.”

“How can they? There an’t none o’ them to see what we do down here. ’Taint likely there’s any listener. Gie a knock or two wi’ the mallet!”

The ship’s carpenter obeying, strikes several blows against an empty water-cask, the noise ascending through the open hatch. He suspends his strokes at hearing exclamations above; then screams in the shrill treble of female voices.

“You see they’re not thinking o’ us,” says the mate. “Them Spaniards are too busy about their own share o’ the job. They’re gettin’ the girls into the boat.”

“Yes; that’s what they’re doing.”

“Sweet girls both be. An’t they, Davis?”

“Ay, that they are; a pair of reg’lar beauties.”

“Look here, shipmate! Since we’ve settled this other thing, I want to say a word about them too, and I may’s well say it now. Gomez and that land-lubber, Hernandez, are layin’ claim to them, as if they had a right. Now they haven’t, no more than any o’ the rest o’ us. Some others may have fancies, too. I confess to havin’ a weakness for the one wi’ the copper-coloured hair, which is she as Gil Gomez wants to ’propriate. I made no objection to his takin’ her into the boat. But soon’s we get ashore, I intend to stan’ out for my rights to that little bit o’ property, which are just as good as his. Do you feel like backin’ me?”

“Hang me, if I don’t! I’m myself a bit sweet upon the dark ’un, and have been, ever since settin’ eyes on her. And though I’ve said nothing, like yourself, I wasn’t going to give that point up, before having a talk about it. You say the word—I’ll stan’ by you. And if it comes to fightin’, I’ll make short work with that bandy-legged chap Hernandez, the one as wants her. We can count on Jack Striker on our side; and most like the Dane and Dutchman; La Crosse for certain. Frenchy don’t cotton to them Spaniards, ever since his quarrel with Padilla. But, as you say, let’s go in for the girls, whether or not. You can claim the light-haired. I’m for the dark one, an’ damned if I an’t ready to fight for her—to the death!”

“As I for the other!” exclaims the ex-man-o’-war, in eager serious earnest.

“But what’s to be done after we go ashore?” asks Davis. “That’s what’s been bothering me. We’re about to land in a strange country, but where these Spanish chaps will be at home, speakin’ the lingo, an’ll so have the advantage of us. There’s a difficulty. Can you see a way out of it?”

“Clearly.”

“How?”

“Because the girls don’t care for eyther o’ the two as are layin’ claim to them. Contrarywise, they hate ’em both. I’ve knowd that all along. So, if we get ’em out o’ their clutches—at the same time givin’ the girls a whisper about protectin’ them—they’ll go willin’ly ’long wi’ us. Afterwards, we can act accordin’ to the chances that turn up. Only swear you’ll stan’ by me, Bill, an’ wi’ Striker to back us, we’ll bring things right.”

“I’m bound to stan’ by you; so’ll Jack, I’m sure. Hark! that’s him, now! He’s calling to us. By God, I believe they’re in the boat!”

“They are! Let’s hurry up! Just possible them Spaniards may take it into their heads—. Quick, shipmate! Heave after me!”

With this, Blew holds out the lantern to light them up the hatch, both making as much haste to reach the deck as if their lives depended upon speed.

Chapter Sixty One.

The Barque Abandoned.

While the scuttlers are shirking their work in the Condor’s hold, and simultaneous with the abduction on deck, a scene is transpiring in her cabin, which might be likened to a saturnalia of demons.

The skipper and Don Gregorio, sitting over their walnuts and wine, are startled by the sound of footsteps descending the stair. As they are heavy and hurried, bearing no resemblance to the gentle tread of woman—it cannot be the ladies coming down again. Nor yet the negro cook, since his voice is heard above in angry expostulation. Two of the sailors have just seized him in his galley, throttled him back on the bench, and are there lashing him with a piece of log-line.

They at the cabin-table know nothing of this. They hear his shouts, and now also the shrieks of the young girls; but have no time to take any steps, as at that instant the cuddy-door is dashed open, and several men come rushing in; the second mate at their head. Lantanas, sitting with his face to the door, sees them first, Don Gregorio, turning in his seat, the instant after.

Neither thinks of demanding a reason for the rude intrusion. The determined air of the intruders, with the fierce expression on their faces, tells it would be idle.

In a time shorter than it takes to tell it, the two doomed men are made fast to the stanchioned chairs; where they sit bolt upright, firm as bollard heads. But not in silence. Both utter threats, oaths, angry fulminations.

Not for long are they allowed this freedom of speech. One of the sailors, seizing a pair of nutcrackers, thrusts them between the skipper’s teeth, gagging him. Another with a corkscrew, does the like for Don Gregorio.

Then the work of pillage proceeds. The locker lids are forced, and the boxes of gold-dust dragged out.

Several goings and comings are required for its transport to the pinnace; but at length it is stowed in the boat, the plunderers taking their seats beside it.

One lingers in the cabin behind the rest; that fiend in human shape who has all along counselled killing the unfortunate men.

Left alone with them, helpless, and at his mercy, he looks as if still determined to do this. It is not from any motive of compassion that he goes from one to the other, and strikes the gags from between their teeth. For at the same time he apostrophises them in horrid mockery:

“Carramba! I can’t think of leaving two gentlemen seated at such a well-furnished table, and no end of wine, without being able to hob-nob, and drink one another’s health!”

Then specially addressing himself to Lantanas, he continues:

“You see, captain, I’m not spiteful; else I shouldn’t think of showing you this bit of civility, after the insults you’ve offered me, since I’ve been second officer of your ship.”

After which, turning angrily upon Don Gregorio, and going close up, he shrieks into his ears:

“Perhaps you don’t know me, Montijo? Can your worship recall a circumstance that occurred some six years ago, when you where alcalde-mayor of Yerba Buena? You may remember having a poor fellow pilloried, and whipped, for doing a bit of contraband. I was that unfortunate individual. And this is my satisfaction for the indignity you put upon me. Keep your seats, gentlemen! Drink your wine and eat your walnuts. Before you’ve cleared the table, this fine barque, with your noble selves, will be at the bottom of the sea.”

The ruffian concludes with a peal of scornful laughter, continued as he ascends the cabin-stair, after striding out and banging the door behind him!

On deck, he sees himself alone; and hurrying to the ship’s waist, scrambles over the side, down into the boat; where he finds everything stowed, the oarsmen seated on the thwarts, their oars in the rowlocks, ready to shove off.

They are not all there yet. Two—the first mate and Davis are still aboard the barque—down in her hold.

There are those who would gladly cast loose, and leave the laggards behind. Indeed, soon as stepping into the boat, Padilla proposes it, the other Spaniards abetting him.

But their traitorous desire is opposed by Striker. However otherwise debased, the ex-convict is true to the men who speak his own tongue.

He protests in strong determined language, and is backed by the Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and Slush.

“Bah!” exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the minority; “I was only jesting. Of course, I had no intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha!” he adds with a forced laugh, “we’d be the blackest of traitors to behave that way.”

Striker pays no heed to the hypocritical speech, but calls to his old chum and Harry Blew—alternately pronouncing their names.

He gets response, and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the rail.

Blew is not far behind, but still does not appear. He is by the foot of the mainmast with a haulyard in his hands as though hoisting something aloft. The moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any one to see what it is. Besides, there is no one observing him—no one could, the bulwarks being between.

“Hillo, there, Blew!” again hails Striker; “what be a-keepin’ ye? Hurry down! These Spanish chaps are threetnin’ to go off without ye.”

“Hang it!” exclaims the chief mate, now showing the side; “I hope that an’t true!”

“Certainly not!” exclaims Padilla; “nothing of the kind. We were only afraid you might delay too long, and be in danger of going down with the vessel.”

“Not much fear of that,” returns Blew, dropping into the boat, “It’ll be some time afore she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out, didn’t ye?”

“Ay, ay!” responds he who was the last at the wheel.

“All right; shove off, then! That wind’ll take the old Condor straight seawart; and long afore sunrise she’ll be out sight o’ land. Give way there—way!”

The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from the side, with prow turned shoreward.

The barque, with her sails still spread, is left to herself, and the breeze, which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilderness of ocean.

Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle of an oar in its rowlock, the pirates run their boat through the breakers, and approach the shore. Right ahead are the two summits, with the moon just going down behind; and between is a cove of horseshoe shape, the cliffs extending around it.

With a few more strokes the boat is brought into it and glides on to its innermost end.

As the keel grates upon the shingly strand, their ears are saluted by a chorus of cries—the alarm signal of seabirds, startled by the intrusion; among them the scream of the harpy eagle, resembling the laugh of a maniac.

These sounds, despite their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing them. They tell of a shore uninhabited—literally, that the “coast is clear”—just as they wish it.

Beaching the boat, they bound on shore, and lift their captives out; then the spoils—one unresisting as the other.

Some go in search of a place where they may pass the night; for it is too late to think of proceeding inland.

Between the strand and the cliff’s base, these discover a beach, several feet above sea-level, having an area of over an acre, covered with coarse grass, just the spot for a camping-place.

As the sky has become clouded, and threatens a downpour of rain, they carry thither the boat’s sail, intending to rig it up as an awning.

But a discovery is made which spares them the trouble. Along its base the cliff is honeycombed with caves, one of ample dimensions, sufficient to shelter the whole crew. A ship’s lamp, which they have brought with them, when lighted throws its glare upon stalactites, that sparkle like the pendants of chandeliers.

Disposing themselves in various attitudes, some reclined on their spread pilot-coats, some seated on stones or canvas bags, they enter upon a debauch with the wines abstracted from the stores of the abandoned barque—drinking, talking, singing, shouting, and swearing, till the cavern rings with their hellish revelry. It is well their captives are not compelled to take part in, or listen to, it. To them has been appropriated one of the smaller grottoes, the boat-sail fixed in front securing them privacy. Harry Blew has done this. In the breast of the British man-o’-war’s man there is still a spark of delicacy. Though his gratitude has given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to the level of that ruffianism around him.

While the carousal is thus carried on within the cave, without, the overcast sky begins to discharge itself. Lightning forks and flashes athwart the firmament; thunder rolls reverberating along the cliffs; a strong wind sweeps them; the rain pouring down in torrents.

It is a tropic storm—short-lived, lasting scarce half-an-hour.

But, while on, it lashes the sea into fury, driving the breakers upon the beach, where the beat has been left loosely moored.

In the reflux of the ebbing tide, this is set afloat and carried away seaward. Driven then upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to pieces, when the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away over the foam-crested billows.

Chapter Sixty Two.

Two Tarquins.

It is after midnight. A calm has succeeded the storm; and silence reigns around the cove where the pirates have put in. The seabirds have returned to their perches on the cliff, and now sit noiselessly—save an occasional angry scream from the osprey, as a whip-poor-will, or some other plumed plunderer of the night, flits past his place of repose, near enough to wake the tyrant of the sea-shore, and excite his jealous rage.

Other sounds are the dull boom of the outside breakers, and the lighter ripple of the tidal wave washing over a strand rich in shells.

Now and then, a manatee, raising its bristled snout above the surf, gives out a low prolonged wail, like the moan of some creature in mortal agony.

But there is no human voice now. The ruffians have ended their carousal. Their profane songs, ribald jests, and drunken cachinations, inharmoniously mingling with the soft monotone of the sea, have ceased to be heard. They lie astretch along the cavern floor, its hollow aisles echoing back their snores and stertorous breathing.

Still they are not all asleep, nor all within the cavern. Two are outside, sauntering along the shadow of the cliff. As the moon has also gone down, it is too dark to distinguish their faces. Still, there is light enough reflected from the luminous surface of the sea to show that neither is in sailor garb, but the habiliments of landsmen—this the national costume of Spanish California. On their heads are sombreros of ample brim; wide trousers—cahoneras—flap loose around their ankles; while over their shoulders they carry cloaks, which, by the peculiar drape, are recognisable as Mexican mangas. In the obscurity the colour of these cannot be determined, though one is scarlet, the other sky-blue.

Apparelled as the two men are now, it would be difficult to identify them as Gil Gomez and José Hernandez. For all it is they.

They are strolling about without fear, or thought of any one observing them. Yet one is; a man, who has come out of the larger cavern just after them, and who follows them along the cliff’s base. Not openly or boldly, as designing to join in their deliberation; but crouchingly and by stealth, as if playing spy on them.

He is in sailor togs, wearing a loose dreadnought coat, which he buttons on coming out of the cavern. But before closing it over his breast, the butt of a pistol, and the handle of a knife, could be seen gleaming there, both stuck behind a leathern waist belt.

On first stepping forth, he stands for a time with eyes fixed upon the other two. He can see them but indistinctly, while they cannot see him at all, his figure making no silhouette against the dark disc of the cave’s mouth. And afterwards, as he moves along the cliff, keeping close in, its shadow effectually conceals him from their view. But still safer is he from being observed by them, after having ensconced himself in a cleft of rock; which he does while their backs are turned upon him.

In the obscure niche he now occupies no light falls upon his face—not a ray. If there did, it would disclose the countenance of Harry Blew; and as oft before, with an expression upon it not easily understood. But no one sees, much less makes attempt to interpret it.

Meanwhile the two saunterers come to a stop and stand conversing. It is Gomez who is first heard saying:

“I’ve been thinking, compañero, now we’ve got everything straight so far, that our best plan will be to stay where we are till the other matter’s fixed.”

“What other are you speaking of?”

“The marrying, of course.”

“Oh! that. Well?”

“We can send on for the padre, and bring him here; or failing him, the cura. To tell truth, I haven’t the slightest idea of where we’ve come ashore. We may be a goodish distance from Santiago; and to go there, embargoed as we are, there’s a possibility of our being robbed of our pretty baggage on the route. You understand me?”

“I do!”

“Against risk of that kind, it is necessary we should take precautions. And the first—as also the best I can think of—is to stay here till we’re spliced. One of our two Californian friends can act as a messenger. Either, with six words I shall entrust to him, will be certain to bring back an ecclesiastic, having full powers to perform the flea-bite of a ceremony. Then we can march inland without fear—ay, with flying colours; both Benedicts, our blushing brides on our arms, and in Santiago spend a pleasant honeymoon.”

“Delightful anticipation!”

“Just so. And for that very reason, we mustn’t risk marring it; which we might, by travelling as simple bachelors. So I say, let us get married before going a step farther.”

“But the others? Are they to assist at our nuptials?”

“Certainly not.”

“In what way can it be avoided?”

“The simplest in the world. It’s understood that we divide our plunder the first thing in the morning. When that’s done, and each has packed up his share, I intend proposing that we separate—every one to go his own gait.”

“Will they agree to that, think you?”

“Of course they will. Why shouldn’t they? It’s the safest way for all, and they’ll see that. Twelve of us trooping together through the country—to say nothing of having the women along—the story we’re to tell about shipwreck might get discredited. When that’s made clear, to our old shipmates, they’ll be considerate for their own safety. Trust me for making it clear. Of course we’ll keep our Californian friends to act as groomsmen; so that the only things wanted will be a brace of bridesmaids.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughs Hernandez.

“And now to see about our brides. We’ve not yet proposed to them. We went once to do that, and were disappointed. Not much danger of that now.”

“For all that, we may count upon a flat refusal.”

“Flat or sharp, little care I. And it won’t signify, one way or the other. In three days or less I intend calling Carmen Montijo my wife. But come on; I long to lay my hand and heart at her feet.”

Saying which Gomez strides on towards the grotto, the other by his side, like two Tarquins about to invade the sleep of virginal innocence.

Chapter Sixty Three.

Within the Grotto.

Though the grotto is in darkness, its occupants are not asleep. To them repose is impossible; for they are that moment in the midst of anguish, keen as human heart could feel. They have passed through its first throes, and are for the while a little calmer. But it is the tranquillity of deep, deadening grief, almost despair. They mourn him dearest to them as dead.

Nor have they any doubt of it. How could they? While in the boat, they heard their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well knowing what they meant. Long since has she gone to the bottom of the sea, with the living left aboard, or perhaps only their lifeless bodies; for they may have been murdered before! No matter now in what way death came to them. Enough of sadness and horror to think it has come—enough for the bereaved ones to know they are bereft.

Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. Though hindered from seeing while in the boat, they have heard. Cupidity the cause; the crime a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas! it has succeeded.

But all is not yet over. Would that it were! There is something still to come; something they fear to reflect upon, or speak of to one another. What is to be their own fate?

Neither can tell, or guess. Their thoughts are too distracted for reasoning. But in the midst of vague visions, one assumes a shape too well-defined. It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when seized.

She again returns to it, saying:

“Iñez, I’m now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. From what has happened, and some voices we heard, I fear my suspicions have been too true!”

“Heaven help us, if it be so!”

“Yes; Heaven help us! Even from pirates we might have expected some mercy; but none from them. Ay de mi! what will become of us?”

The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The spirit of the Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, is now crushed under a weight of very wretchedness. Soon again they exchange speech, seeking counsel of one another. Is there no hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may turn in this hour of dread ordeal? No—not one! Even the English sailor, in whom they had trusted, has proved untrue; to all appearance, chief of the conspiring crew! Every human being seems to have abandoned them. Has God?

“Let us pray to Him!” says Carmen.

“Yes,” answers Iñez; “He only can help us now.”

They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of the cave, and send up their voices in earnest prayer. They first entreat the Holy Virgin that the life of him dear to them may yet be spared; then invoke her protection for themselves, against a danger both dread as death itself. They pray in trembling accents, but with a fervour eloquent through fear.

Solemnly pronouncing “Amen!” they make the sign of the cross; in darkness, God alone seeing it.

As their hands drop down from the gesture, and while they are still in a kneeling attitude, a noise outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven, suddenly recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears.

They hear voices of men in conversation; at the same time the sailcloth is pushed aside, and two men press past it into the cave. Soon as entering one says:

“Señoritas! we must ask pardon for making our somewhat untimely call; which present circumstances render imperative. It’s to be hoped, however, you won’t stand upon such stiff ceremony with us, as when we had the honour of last paying our respects to you.”

After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to see what may be the effect of his words. As this cannot be gathered from any reply—since none is vouchsafed—he continues; “Dona Carmen Montijo, you and I are old acquaintances; though, it may be, you do not remember my voice. With the sound of the sea so long echoing in your ears, that’s not strange. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove more effectual in recalling an old friend. Let me give you something to assist it!”

Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto concealed beneath his cloak. As it lights up the grotto, four figures are seen erect; for the girls have sprung to their feel in apprehension of immediate danger. Upon all, the light shines clear; and, fronting her, Carmen Montijo sees—too surely recognising it—the face of Francisco de Lara; while in her vis-à-vis, Iñez Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon!

Yes, before them are their scorned suitors; no longer disguised in sailor garb, but resplendent in their Californian costume—the same worn by them on that day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the dust of the Dolores road.

Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is complete; and in strains of exultation he continues:

“So, ladies! you see we’ve come together again! No doubt you’re a little surprised at our presence, but I hope not annoyed.”

There is no reply to this taunting speech.

“Well, if you won’t answer, I shall take it for granted you are annoyed; besides looking a little alarmed too. You’ve no need to be that.”

“No, indeed,” endorses Calderon. “We mean you no harm—none whatever.”

“On the contrary,” goes on De Lara, “only good. We’ve nothing but favours to offer you.”

“Don Francisco de Lara!” exclaims Carmen, at length breaking silence, and speaking in a tone of piteous expostulation; “and you, Don Faustino Calderon, why have you committed this crime? What injury have we ever done you?”

“Come! not so fast, fair Carmen! Crime’s a harsh word, and we’ve not committed any as yet—nothing to speak of.”

“No crime! Santissima! My father—my poor father!”

“Don’t be uneasy about him. He’s safe enough.”

“Safe! Dead! Drowned! Dios de mi alma!”

“No, no. That’s all nonsense,” protests the fiend, adding falsehood to his sin of deeper dye. “Don Gregorio is not where you say. Instead of being at the sea’s bottom, he is sailing upon its surface; and is likely to be, for Heaven knows how long. But let’s drop that subject of the past, which seems unpleasant to you, and talk of the present—of ourselves. You ask what injury you’ve ever done us? Faustino Calderon may answer for himself to the fair Iñez. To you, Doña Carmen, I shall make reply—But we may as well confer privately.”

At this he lays hold of her wrist, and leads her aside; Calderon conducting Iñez in the opposite direction.

When the whole length of the cavern is between the two pairs, De Lara resumes speech:

“Yes, Doña Carmen; you have done me an injury—a double wrong I may call it.”

“How, sir?” she asks, withdrawing her hand from his, with a disdainful gesture. “How?” he retorts. “Why, in making me love you—by leading me to believe my love returned.”

“You speak falsely; I never did so.”

“You did, Doña Carmen; you did. It is you who speak false, denying it. That is the first wrong I have to reproach you with. The second is in casting me off, as soon as you supposed you’d done with me. Not so, as you see now. We’re together again—never more to part till I’ve had satisfaction for all. I once hinted—I now tell you plainly, you’ve made a mistake in trifling with Francisco de Lara.”

“I never trifled with you, señor. Dios mio! What means this? Man—if you be a man—have mercy! Oh! what would you—what would you?”

“Nothing to call for such distracted behaviour on your part. On the contrary, I’ve brought you here—for I’ll not deny that it’s I who have done it—to grant you favours, instead of asking them. Ay, or even satisfying resentments. What I intend towards you, I hope you will appreciate. To shorten explanations—for which we’ve neither opportunity nor time—I want you for my wife—want you, and will have you.”

“Your wife!”

“Yes; my wife. You needn’t look surprised, nor counterfeit feeling it. And equally idle for you to make opposition. I’ve determined upon it. So, you must many me.”

“Marry the murderer of my father! Sooner than do that, you shall also be mine. Wretch! I am in your power. You can kill me now.”

“I know all that, without your telling me. But I don’t intend killing you. On the contrary, I shall take care to keep you alive, until I’ve tried what sort of a wife you’ll make. Should you prove a good one, and fairly affectionate, we two may lead a happy life together, notwithstanding the little unpleasantness that’s been between us. If not, and our wedded bondage prove uncongenial, why, then, I may release you in the way you wish, or any other that seems suitable. After the honeymoon, you shall have your choice. Now Doña Carmen! those are my conditions. I hope you find them fair enough!”

She makes no reply. The proud girl is dumb, partly with indignation, partly from the knowledge that all speech would be idle. But while angry to the utmost, she is also afraid—trembling at the alternative presented—death or dishonour; the last if she marry the murderer of her father; the first if she refuse him!

The ruffian repeats his proposal, in the same cynical strain, concluding it with a threat.

She is at length stung to reply; which she does in but two words, twice repeated in wild despairing accent. They are:

“Kill me—kill me!”

Almost at the same time, and in similar strain does Iñez answer her cowardly suitor, who in a corner of the grotto has alike brought her to bay.

After the dual response, there is a short interval of silence. Then De Lara, speaking for both, says:

“Señoritas! we shall leave you now; and you can go to sleep without fear of further solicitation. No doubt, after a night’s rest, you’ll awake to a more sensible view of matters in general, and the case as it stands. Of one thing be assured; that there’s no chance of your escaping from your present captivity, unless by consenting to change your names. And if you don’t consent, they’ll be changed all the same. Yes, Carmen Montijo! before another week passes over your head, you shall be addressed as Doña Carmen de Lara.

“And you, Iñez Alvarez, will be called Doña Iñez Calderon. No need for you to feel dishonoured by a name among the first in California. Noble as your own; ay, or any in old Spain.”

“Hasta mañana, muchacas!” salutes De Lara, preparing to take leave. “Pasan Vs buena noche!”

Calderon repeating the same formulary, the two step towards the entrance, lift up the piece of suspended sailcloth, and pass out into night. They have taken the lantern along with them, again leaving the grotto in darkness.

The girls grope their way, till their arms come in contact. Then, closing in mutual embrace, they sink together upon the cold flinty floor!

Chapter Sixty Four.

Oceanwards.

Another day dawns over the great South Sea. As the golden orb shows above the crest of the central American Cordillera, its beams scatter wide over the Pacific, as a lamp raised aloft, flashing its light afar. Many degrees of longitude receive instant illumination, at once turning night into day.

An observer looking west over that vast watery expanse would see on its shining surface objects that gladdened not the eyes of Balboa. In his day, only the rude Indian balsa, or frail periagua, afraid to venture out, stole timidly along the shore; but now huge ships, with broad white sails, and at rare intervals the long black hull of a steamer, thick smoke vomited forth from her funnel, may be descried in a offing that extends to the horizon itself.

But not always may ships be seen upon it; for the commerce of the Pacific is slight compared with that of the Atlantic, and large vessels passing along the coast of Veragua are few and far between.

On this morning, however, one is observed, and but one; she not sailing coastwise, but standing out towards mid-ocean, as though she had just left the land.

As the ascending sun dispels the night darkness around her, she can be descried as a white fleck on the blue water, her spread sails seeming no bigger than the wings of a sea-gull. Still, through a telescope—supposing it in the hands of a seaman—she may be told to be a craft with polacca-masts; moreover, that the sails on her mizzen are not square-set, but fore-and-aft, proclaiming her a barque. For she is one; and could the observer through his glass make out the lettering upon her stern, he would read there her name, El Condor.

Were he transported aboard of her, unaware of what has happened, it would surprise him to find her decks deserted; not even a man at the wheel, though she is sailing with full canvas spread, even to studding-sails; no living thing seen anywhere, save two monstrous creatures covered with rust-coloured hair—mocking counterfeits of humanity.

Equally astonished would he be at finding her forecastle abandoned; sailors’ chests with the lids thrown open, and togs lying loose around them! Nor would it lessen his astonishment to glance into the galley, and there behold a black man sitting upon its bench, who does not so much as rise to receive him. Nor yet, descending her cabin-stair, to see a table profusely spread, at either end guest, alike uncourteous in keeping their seats, on the laces of both an expression of agonised despair! And all this might be seen on board the Chilian barque, on the morning after she was abandoned by her traitorous and piratical crew, A sad night has it been for the three unfortunates left aboard, more especially the two constrained to sit at the cabin-table. Both have bitterest thoughts, enough to fill the cup of their misery to the brim. A night of anguish for the ex-haciendado. Not because of having seen his treasure, the bulk of his fortune, borne off before his eyes; but from the double shriek which, at that same instant, reached him from the deck, announcing the seizure of things more dear. His daughter and grand-daughter were then made captive; and, from their cries suddenly leasing, he dreaded something worse—fearing them stifled by death. Reminded of an event in Yerba Buena, as also recognising the ruffian who taunted him, made it the more probable that such had been their fate. He almost wished it; he would rather that, than a doom too horrible to think of.

The first mate? He must have been killed too; butchered while endeavouring to defend them? The unsuspicious captain could not think of his chief officer having gone against him; and how could Don Gregorio believe the man so recommended turning traitor?

While they were thus charitably judging him, they received a crushing response; hearing his voice among the mutineers—not in expostulation, or opposed, but as if taking part with them! One, Striker, called out his name, to which he answered; and, soon after, other speeches from his lips sounded clear through the cabin windows, open on that mild moonlight night.

Still listening, as they gazed in one another’s face with mute astonishment, they heard a dull thud against the ship’s side—the stroke of a boat-hook as the pinnace was shoved off—then a rattle, as the oars commence working in the tholes, succeeded by the plash of the oar-blades in the water. After that, the regular “dip-dip,” at length dying away, as the boat receded, leaving the abandoned vessel silent as a graveyard in the mid-hour of night.

Seated with face towards the cuddy windows, Don Gregorio could see through them, and as the barque’s bow rose on the swell, depressing her stern, he commanded a view of the sea outside.

There, upon its calm clear surface, he made out a dark object moving away. It was a boat filled with forms, the oar-blades rising and tailing in measured stroke, flashing the phosphorescence on both sides. No wonder at his earnest look—his gaze of concentrated anguish! That boat held all that was dear to him—bearing that all away, he knows not whither, to a fate he dare not reflect upon. He could trace the outlines of land beyond, and perceive that the boat was being rowed for it, the barque at the same time sailing seaward, each instant widening the distance between them. But for a long while he could distinguish the black speck with luminous jets on either side, as the oar-blades intermittently rose and fell, till at length, entering within the shadow of the land, he lost sight of it.

“Gone! all gone!” groaned the bereaved father, his beard drooping down to his breast, his countenance showing he has surrendered up his soul to despair! So, too, Lantanas.

Then both ceased struggling and shouting, alike convinced of the idleness of such demonstrations. The chief officer a mutineer, so must all the others; and all had forsaken the ship. No; not all! There is one remains true, and who is still on her—the black cook. They heard his voice, though not with any hope. It came from a distant part of the ship in cries betokening distress. They could expect no help from him. He was either disabled, or, as themselves, fast bound.

Throughout the night they heard it; the intervals between becoming longer, the voice fainter, till he also, yielding to despair, was silent.

As the morning sun shines in through the stern windows, Don Gregorio can see they are out of sight of land. Only sea and sky are visible to him; but neither to Lantanas, whose face is the other way; so fastened he cannot even turn his head.

The barque is scudding before a breeze, which bears her still farther into the great South Sea; on whose broad bosom she might beat for weeks, months—ay, till her timbers rot—without sighting ship, or being herself descried by human eye. Fearful thought—appalling prospect to those constrained to sit at her cabin-table!

With that before their minds, the morning light brings no joy. Instead, it but intensifies their misery. For they are now sure they have no chance of being rescued.

They sit haggard in their chairs—for no sleep has visited the eyes of either—like men who have been all night long engaged in a drunken debauch.

Alas! how different! The glasses of wine before them are no longer touched, nor the fruits tasted. Neither the bouquet of the one, nor the perfume of the other, has any charm for them now. Either is as much beyond their reach, as if a thousand miles off, instead of on a table between them!

Gazing in one another’s faces, they at once fancy it a dream. They can scarcely bring themselves to realise such a situation! Who could! The rude intrusion of the ruffian crew—the rough handling they have had—the breaking open of the lockers—and the boxes of gold borne off—all seem but the phantasmagoria of some horrible vision!

Chapter Sixty Five.

Partitioning the Spoil.

The same sun that shines upon the abandoned barque lights up the men who abandoned her, still on that spot where they came ashore. As the first rays fall over the cliff’s crest, they show a cove of semicircular shape, backed by a beetling precipice. A ledge or dyke, sea-washed, and weed-covered, trends across its entrance, with a gate-like opening in the centre, through which, at high tide, the sea sweeps in, though never quite up to the base of the cliff. Between this and the strand lies the elevated platform already spoken of, accessible from above by a sloping ravine, the bed of a stream running only when it rains. As said, it is only an acre or so in extent, and occupying the inner concavity of the semicircle. The beach is not visible from it, this concealed by the dry reef which runs across it as the chord of an arc. Only a small portion of it can be seen through the portal which admits the tidal flow. Beyond, stretches the open sea outside the surf, with the breakers more than a mile off.

Such is the topography of the place where the mutineers have made landing and passed the night. When the day dawns, but little is there seen to betray their presence. Only a man seated upon a stone, nodding as if asleep, at intervals awakening with a start, and grasping at a gun between his legs; soon letting it go, and again giving way to slumber, the effects of that drunken debauch kept up to a late hour. He would be a poor sentinel were there need for vigilance.

Seemingly, there is none. No enemy is near—no human being in sight; the only animate objects some seabirds, that, winging their way along the face of the cliff, salute him with an occasional scream, as if incensed by his presence in a spot they deem sacred to themselves.

The sun fairly up, he rises to his feet, and walks towards the entrance of the larger cavern; then stopping in front of it, cries out:

“Inside there, shipmates! Sun’s up—time to be stirring!”

Seeing him in motion, and hearing his hail, the gulls gather, and swoop around his head in continuous screaming. In larger numbers, and with cries more stridulent, as his comrades come forth out of the cave, one after another—yawning, and stretching their arms.

The first, looking seaward, proposes to refresh himself by a plunge in the surf; and for this purpose starts toward the beach. The others, taken with the idea, follow in twos and threes, till in a string all are en route for the strand.

To reach this, it is necessary for them to pass through the gap in the transverse ledge; which the tide, now at ebb, enables them to do.

He who leads, having gone through it, on getting a view of the shore outside, suddenly stops; as he does so, sending back a shout. It is a cry of surprise, followed by the startling announcement:

“The boat’s gone!”

This should cause them apprehension; and would, if they but knew the consequences. Ignorant of these, they make light of it, one saying:

“Let her go, and be damned! We want no boats now.”

“A horse would be more to our purpose,” suggests a second; “or, for that matter, a dozen.”

“A dozen donkeys would do,” adds a third, accompanying his remark with a horse-laugh. “It’ll take about that many to pack our possibles.”

“What’s become of the old pinnace, anyhow?” asks one in sober strain; as, having passed through the rock-portal, they stand scanning the strand. All remember the place where they left the boat; and see it is not there.

“Has any one made away with it?”

The question is asked, and instantly answered, several saying, no. Striker, the man who first missed it, vouchsafes the explanation:

“The return tide’s taken it out; an’ I dar say, it’s broke to bits on them theer breakers.”

They now remember it was not properly moored, but left with painter loose; and do not wonder it went adrift. They care little, indeed nothing, and think of it no longer; but, stripping, plunge into the surf.

After bathing to their hearts’ content, they return to the cavern, and array themselves in garments befitted to the life they intend leading. Their tarry togs are cast off, to be altogether abandoned; for each has a suit of shore clothes, brought away from the barque.

Every one rigged out in his own peculiar style, and breakfast despatched, they draw together to deliberate on a plan of future action. But first the matter of greatest moment—the partition of the spoils.

It is made in little time, and with no great trouble. The boxes are broken open, and the gold-dust measured out in a pannikin; a like number of measures apportioned to each.

In money value no one can tell the exact amount of his share. Enough satisfaction to know it is nigh as much as he can carry.

After each has appropriated his own, they commence packing up, and preparing for the inland journey. And next arises the question, what way are they to go?

They have already resolved to strike for the city of Santiago; but in what order should they travel? Separate into several parties, or go all together?

The former plan, proposed by Gomez, is supported by Padilla, Hernandez, and Velarde. Gomez gives his reasons. Such a large number of pedestrians along roads where none save horsemen are ever seen, could not fail to excite surprise. It might cause inconvenient questions to be asked them—perhaps lead to their being arrested, and taken before some village alcalde. And what story could they tell?

On the other hand, there will be the chance of coming across Indians; and as those on the Veraguan coast are ranked among the “bravos”—having preserved their independence, and along with it their instinctive hostility to the whites—an encounter with them might be even more dangerous than with any alcalde. Struggling along in squads of two or three, they would run a risk of getting captured, or killed, or scalped—perhaps all three.

This is the suggestion of Harry Blew, Striker and Davis alone favouring his view. All the others go against it, Gomez ridiculing the idea of danger from red men; at the same time enlarging on that to be apprehended from white ones.

As the majority have more reason to fear civilised man than the so-called savage, it ends in their deciding for separation. They can come together again in Santiago if they choose it; or not, should chance for good or ill so determine. They are all now amply provided for, playing an independent part in the drama of life; and with this pleasant prospect, they may part company without a sigh of regret.

Chapter Sixty Six.

A Tender Subject.

The pirates having definitively settled the mode of making their inland journey, there is a short interregnum; during which most of those ready for the road stand idling, one or two still occupied in equipping themselves.

La Crosse has been sent up the ravine, to report how things look landward.

The four Spaniards have signified their intention to remain a little longer on the ground; while the three Englishmen have not said when they will leave. These are together conferring in low voice; but with an earnestness in their eyes—especially Blew’s—which makes it easy to guess the subject. Only thoughts of woman could kindle these fiery glances.

Soon all appear ready to depart. Still no one stirs from the spot. For there is something yet: still another question to be determined; to most of them a matter of little, though to some of all consequence.

In the latter light, two at least regard it; since with them it has been the source, the primary motive, the real spur to all their iniquitous action. In a word, it is the women.

The captives: how are they to be disposed of?

They are still within the grotto, unseen, as the sailcloth curtains it. Breakfast has been taken to them, which they have scarce touched.

And, now, the time has come for deciding what has to be done with them; no one openly asks, or says word upon the subject; though it is uppermost in the thoughts of all. It is a delicate question, and they are shy of broaching it. For there is a sort of tacit impression there will be difficulty about the appropriation of this portion of the spoils—an electricity in the air, that foretells dispute and danger. All along it had been understood that two men laid claim to them; their claim, whether just or not, hitherto unquestioned, or, at all events, uncontested. These, Gomez and Hernandez. As they had been the original designers of the supposed deed, now done, their confederates, men little given to love-making, had either not thought about the women, or deemed their possession of secondary importance. But now, at the eleventh hour, it has become known that two others intend asserting a claim to them—one being Blew, the other Davis.

And these two certainly seem so determined, their eyes constantly turning towards the grotto where the girls are, unconscious of the interest they are exciting.

At length the dreaded interrogatory is put—and point blank. For it is Jack Striker who puts it. The “Sydney Duck” is not given to sentiment or circumlocution.

Speaking that all may hear him, he blurts out:

“Well, chums? what are we to do wi’ the weemen?”

“Oh! they?” answers Gomez in a drawling tone, and with an affectation of indifference. “You’ve nothing to do with them, and needn’t take any trouble. They’ll go with us—with Señor Hernandez and myself.”

“Will they, indeed?” sharply questions the chief officer.

“Of course,” answers Gomez.

“I don’t see any of course about it,” rejoins Blew. “And more’n that, I tell ye they don’t go with ye—leastwise, not so cheap as you think for.”

“What do you mean, Mr Blew?” demands the Spaniard, his eyes betraying anger, with some uneasiness.

“No use your losin’ temper, Gil Gomez. You ain’t goin’ to scare me. So you may as well keep cool. By doin’ that, and listenin’, you’ll larn what I mean. The which is, that you and Hernandez have no more right to them creeturs in the cave than any o’ the rest of us. Just as the gold, so ought it to be wi’ the girls. In coorse, we can’t divide them all round; but that’s no reason why any two should take ’em, so long’s any other two wants ’em as well. Now, I wants one o’ them.”

“And I another!” puts in Davis.

“Yes,” continues Blew; “and though I be a bit older than you, Mr Gomez, and not quite so pretentious a gentleman, I can like a pretty wench as well’s yerself. I’ve took a fancy to the one wi’ the tortoise-shell hair, an’ an’t goin’ to gi’e her up in the slack way you seem to be wishin’.”

“Glad to hear it’s the red one, Blew,” says Davis. “As I’m for the black one, there’ll be no rivalry between us. Her I mean to have—unless some better man hinders me.”

“Well,” interpolates Striker, “as ’twas me first put the questyun, I ’spose I’ll be allowed to gi’e an opeenyun?”

No one saying nay, the ex-convict proceeds:

“As to any one hevin’ a speecial claim to them weemen, nobody has, an’ nobody shed have. ’Bout that, Blew’s right, an’ so’s Bill. An’ since the thing’s disputed, it oughter be settled in a fair an’ square—”

“You needn’t waste your breath,” interrupts Gomez, in a tone of determination. “I admit no dispute in the matter. If these gentlemen insist, there’s but one way of settling. First, however, I’ll say a word to explain. One of these ladies is my sweetheart—was, before I ever saw any of you. Señor Hernandez here can say the same of the other. Nay, I may tell you more; they are pledged to us.”

“It’s a lie!” cries Blew, confronting the slanderer, and looking him straight in the face. “A lie, Gil Gomez, from the bottom o’ your black heart!”

“Enough!” exclaims Gomez, now purple with rage. “No man can give Frank Lara the lie, and live after.”

“Frank Lara; or whatever you may call yerself, I’ll live long enough to see you under ground—or what’s more like, hangin’ high above it wi’ your throat in a halter. Don’t make any mistake about me. I can shoot straight as you.”

“Avast theer!” shouts Striker to Gomez, now calling himself De Lara, seeing him about to draw a pistol. “Keep yer hand off that wepun! If theer must be a fight, let it be a fair one. But, before it begin, Jack Striker has a word to say.”

While speaking, he has stepped between the two men, staying their encounter.

“Yes; let the fight be a fair one!” demand several voices, as the pirates come clustering around.

“Look here, shipmates!” continues Striker, still standing between the two angry men, and alternately eyeing them. “What’s the use o’ spillin’ blood about it—maybe killin’ one the other? All for the sake o’ a pair o’ petticoats, or a couple o’ pairs, as it be. Take my advice, an’ settle the thing in a pacifical way. Maybe ye will, after ye’ve heerd what I intend proposin’; which I daresay ’ll be satisfactory to all.”

“What is it, Jack?” asks one of the outsiders.

“First, then, I’m goin’ to make the observashun, that fightin’ an’t the way to get them weemen, whoever’s fools enough to fight for ’em. Theer’s somethin’ to be done besides.”

“Explain yourself, old Sydney! What’s to be done besides?”

“If the gals are goin’ to be fought for, they’ve first got to be paid for.”

“How that?”

“How? What humbuggin’ stuff askin’ such a questyin! Han’t we all equil shares in ’em? Coorse we hev. Tharfore, them as wants ’em, must pay for ’em. An’ they as wants ’em so bad as to do shootin’ for ’em, surely won’t objek to that. Theer appear to be four candydates in the field, an’, kewrous enuf, they’re set in pairs, two for each one o’ the gals. Now, ’ithout refarin’ to any fightin’ that’s to be done—an’, if they’re fools enuf to fight, let ’em—I say that eyther who eventyally gets a gal, shed pay a considerashin o’ gold-dust all roun’ to the rest o’ us—at least a pannikin apiece. That’s what Jack Striker proposes first.”

“It’s fair,” says Slush.

“Nothing more than our rights,” observes Tarry; the Dane and the Dutchman also endorsing the proposal.

“I agree to it,” says Harry Blew.

“I also,” adds Davis.

De Lara—late Gomez—signifies his assent by a disdainful nod, but without saying a word; Hernandez imitating the action. In fear of losing adherents, neither dares disapprove of it.

“What more have you to say, Jack?” asks Slush, recalling Striker’s last words, which seemed to promise something else.

“Not much. Only thet I think it a pity, after our livin’ so long in harmony thegither, we can’t part same way. Weemen’s allers been a bother ever since I’ve know’d ’em. An’, I ’spose, it’ll continue so to the eend o’ the chapter, an’ the eend o’ some lives heer. I repeet, thet it be a pity we shed hev to wind up wi’ a quarrel wheer blood’s bound to be spilt. Now, why, can’t it be settled ’ithout thet? I think I know o’ a way.”

“What way?”

“Leave it to the ladies theirselves. Gi’e them the chance o’ who they’d like for theer purtectors; same time lettin’ ’em know they’ve got to choose ’tween one or t’other. Let ’em take theer pick, everybody unnerstanin’ afterwards theer’s to be no quarrellin’, or fightin’. That’s our law in the Australyin bush, when we’ve cases o’ the kind; an’ every bushranger hez to ’bide by it. Why shedn’t it be the same heer?”

“Why shouldn’t it?” asks Slush. “It’s a good law—just and fair for all.”

“I consent to it,” says Blew, with apparent reluctance, as if doubtful of the result, yet satisfied to submit to the will of the majority. “I mayn’t be neyther so young nor so good-lookin’ as Mr Gomez,” he adds; “I know I an’t eyther. Still I’ll take my chance. If she I lay claim to pronounces against me, I promise to stand aside, and say ne’er another word—much less think o’ fightin’ for her. She can go ’long wi’ him, an’ my blessin’ wi’ both.”

“Bravo, Blew! You talk like a good ’un. Don’t be afraid; we’ll stand by you!”

This, from several of the outsiders.

“Comrades!” says Davis, “I place myself in your hands. If my girl’s against me, I’m willin’ to give her up, same as Blew.”

What about the other two? What answer will they make to the proposed peaceful compromise? All eyes are turned on them, awaiting it.

De Lara speaks first, his eyes flashing fire. Hitherto he has been holding his anger in check, but now it breaks out, poured forth like lava from a burning mountain.

“Carajo!” he cries. “I’ve been listening a long time to talk—taking it too coolly. Idle talk, all of it; yours, Mr Striker, especially. What care we about your ways in the Australian bush. They won’t hold good here, or with me. My style of settling disputes is this, or this.” He touches his pistol-butt, and then the hilt of macheté, hanging by his side, adding, “Mr Blew can have his choice.”

“All right!” retorts the ex-man-o’-war’s man. “I’m good for a bout with eyther, and don’t care a toss which. Pistols at six paces, or my cutlass against that straight blade o’ yours. Both if you like.”

“Both be it. That’s best, and will make the end sure. Get ready, and quick. For, sure as I stand here, I intend killing you!”

“Say, you intend tryin’. I’m ready to give you the chance. You can begin, soon’s you feel disposed.”

“And I’m ready for you, sir,” says Davis, confronting Hernandez. “Knives, pistols, tomahawks—anything you like.”

Hernandez hangs back, as though he would rather decline this combat à outrance.

“No, Bill!” interposes Striker; “one fight at a time. When Blew an’ Gomez hev got through wi’ theirs, then you can gi’e t’other his change—if so be he care to hev it.”

“T’other” appears gratified with Striker’s speech, disregarding the innuendo. He had no thought it would come to this, and now looks as if he would surrender up his sweetheart without striking a blow. He makes no rejoinder; but shrinks back, cowed-like and craven.

“Yes; one fight at a time!” cry others, endorsing the dictum of Striker.

It is the demand of the majority, and the minority concedes it. All know it is to be a duel to the death. A glance at the antagonists—at their angry eyes and determined attitudes—makes this sure. On that lonely shore one of the two, if not both, will sleep his last sleep!

Chapter Sixty Seven.

A Duel Adjourned.

The combat, now declared inevitable, its preliminaries are speedily arranged. Under the circumstances, and between such adversaries, the punctilios of ceremony are slight. For theirs is the rough code of honour common to robbers of all countries and climes.

No seconds are chosen, nor spoken of. All on the ground are to act as such; and at once proceed to business.

Some measure off the distance, stepping it between two stones. Others examine the pistols, to see that both are loaded with ball-cartridge, and carefully capped. The fight is to be with Colt’s six-shooters, navy size. Each combatant chances to have one of this particular pattern. They are to commence firing at twelve paces, and if that be ineffectual, then close up, as either chooses. If neither fall to the shots, then to finish with the steel.

The captives inside the cave are ignorant of what is going on. Little dream they of the red tragedy soon to be enacted so near, or how much they themselves may be affected by its result. It is indeed to them the chances of a contrasting destiny.

The duellists take stand by the stones, twelve paces apart. Blew having stripped off his pilot-cloth coat, is in his shirt-sleeves. These rolled up to the elbow, expose ranges of tattooing, fouled anchors, stars, crescents, and a woman—a perfect medley of forecastle souvenirs. They show also muscles, lying along his arms like lanyards round a ship’s stay. Should the shots fail, those arms promise well for wielding the cutlass; and if his fingers should clutch his antagonist’s throat, the struggle will be a short one.

Still, no weak adversary will he meet in Francisco de Lara. He, too, has laid aside his outer garment—thrown off his scarlet cloak, and the heavy hat. He does not need stripping to the shirt-sleeves; his light jaqueta of velveteen in no way encumbers him. Fitting like a glove, it displays arms of muscular strength, with a body in symmetrical correspondence.

A duel between two such gladiators might be painful, but for all, a fearfully interesting spectacle. Those about to witness it seem to think so, as they stand silent, with breath bated, and eyes alternately on one and the other.

As it has been arranged that Striker is to give the signal, the ex-convict, standing centrally outside the line of fire, is about to say a word that will set two men, mad as tigers, at one another—each with full resolve to fire, cut down, and kill.

There is a moment of intense stillness, like the lull which precedes a storm. Nothing heard save the tidal wash against the near strand, the boom of the distant breakers, and at intervals the shrill scream of a sea-bird.

The customary “Ready!” is forming on Striker’s lips, to be followed by the “Fire!—one—two—three!” But not one of these words—not a syllable—is he permitted to speak. Before he can give utterance to the first, a cry comes down from the cliff, which arrests the attention of all; soon as understood, enchaining it.

It is La Crosse who sends it, shouting in accent of alarm—

“Mon Dieu! we’re on an island!”

When the forest is on fire, or the savannah swept by flood, and their wild denizens flee to a spot uninvaded, the timid deer is safe beside the fierce wolf or treacherous cougar. In face of the common danger they will stand trembling together—the beasts of prey for the time gentle as their victims.

So with human kind; a case parallel, and in point, furnished by the crew of the Condor with their captives.

The pirates, on hearing the cry of La Crosse, are at first only startled. But soon their surprise becomes apprehension; keen enough to stay the threatening fight, and indefinitely postpone it. For at the words “We’re on an island!” they are impressed with an instinctive sense of danger; and all, intending combatants as spectators, rush up the ravine, to the summit of the cliff, where La Crosse is still standing.

Arrived there, and casting their eyes inland, they have evidence of the truth of his statement. A strait, leagues in width, separates them from the mainland. Far too wide to be crossed by the strongest swimmer amongst them—too wide for them to be descried from the opposite side, even through a telescope! And the inland is a mere strip of sea-washed rock, running parallel to the coast, cliff-bound, table-topped, sterile, treeless—and, to all appearance, waterless!

As this last thought comes uppermost—along with the recollection that their boat is gone—what was at first only a flurry of excited apprehension, becomes a fixed fear.

Still further intensified, when after scattering over the islet, and exploring it from end to end, they again come together, and each party delivers its report. No wood save some stunted bushes; no water—stream, pond, or spring; only that of the salt sea rippling around; no sign of animal life, except snakes, scorpions, and lizards, with the birds flying above—screaming as if in triumph at the intruders upon their domain being thus entrapped!

For they are so, and clearly comprehend it. Most of them are men who have professionally followed the sea, and understand what it is to be “castaways.” Some have had actual experience of it, and need no reminding of its dangers. To a man, they feel their safety as much compromised, as if the spot of earth under their feet, instead of being but three leagues from land—were three thousand—for that matter in the middle of the Pacific.

What would they not now give to be again on board the barque sent sailing thither to miserably perish? Ah! their cruelty has come back upon them like a curse.

The interrupted duel—what of it? Nothing. It is not likely ever to be fought. Between the ci-devant combatants, mad anger and jealous rivalry may still remain. But neither shows it now; both subdued, in contemplation of the common peril.

Blew, to all appearance, is less affected than his antagonist; but all are cowed—awed by a combination of occurrences, that look as though an avenging angel had been sent to punish them.

From that moment Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez will be safe in their midst, as if promenading the streets of Cadiz, or flirting their fans at a funcion de toros.

Safe, as far as being molested by the ruffians around them. Yet, alas! exposed to the danger overhanging all—death from starvation.

A fearful fate threatens the late crew of the Chilian barque, in horror equalling that to which those left aboard of her have been consigned. Well may they deem it a retribution—that God’s hand is upon them, meting out a punishment apportioned to their crime!

But surely He will not permit the innocent to suffer with the guilty? Let us hope—pray, He will not.

Chapter Sixty Eight.

Long-Suffering.

“Virgen Santissima! Mother of God, have mercy!”

The cry is heard in the cabin of the Condor—Don Gregorio Montijo giving utterance to it.

Several days have elapsed since the desertion of her crew, and she is still afloat, drifting in a south-westerly direction, with all sail set, just as when the pirates put away from her.

Why she has not gone to the bottom is known but to two men—they entrusted with the scuttling.

And just as when left, are the three unfortunate beings aboard: the black cook on his galley bench, the captain and his passenger vis-à-vis at the cabin-table, bound to and bolt upright in their chairs.

But though the attitudes of all three are unchanged, there is a marked change in their appearance, especially of those in the cabin. For the white man shown the effects of physical suffering sooner than the Ethiopian.

For over five days Don Gregorio and Lantanas have been enduring agony great as ever tortured Tantalus. It has made fearful inroad on their strength—on their frames. Both are reduced almost to skeletons; cheekbones protruding, eyes sunken in their sockets. Were the cords that confine them suddenly taken off, they would sink helpless on the floor!

Not all this time have they been silent. At intervals they had conversed upon their desperate situation. For the first day, with some lingering hope of being released; but afterwards despairingly, as the hours passed and nothing occurred to change it.

Now and then they have heard cries on deck; knowing they are from the cook; whom they now believe to be, as themselves, bound up somewhere in the forward part of the vessel.

At first they made some attempt to communicate with him, by answering them; but found it an idle effort. He may have heard, but could not help them. And now their feeble strength forbids even such exertion of their voices.

Long since have the two men given up all hope of being able to untie the cords keeping them to their chairs. The knots made by the hands of a sailor would defy the efforts of the most skilled presti-digitateur.

And at length also have they ceased to converse, or only at periods long apart. Lantanas, after his first throes of fierce rage, has sunk into a sort of stupor, and, with head drooping down to his breast, appears as if life had left him.

Don Gregorio, on the contrary, holds his erect—at least during most part of the day. For before him is something to be seen—the sea through the stern windows, still open.

On this he keeps his eyes bent habitually; though not with much hope of their seeing aught to cheer him. On its blue expanse he beholds but a streak of white, the frothing water in the vessel’s wake, now and then a “school” of tumbling porpoises, or the “spout” of a cachalot whale.

Once, however, an object came within his field of vision, which caused him to start, writhe in his ropes, and cry out to the utmost of his strength. For it was a ship in full sail crossing the Condor’s track, and scarce a cable’s length astern!

He heard a hail and called out in response, Lantanas joining him.

And the two kept on shouting for hours after, till their feeble voices failed them; and they again resigned themselves to a despondency, hopeless as ever.

All their shouts have ever brought them were the Bornean apes, that they often hear scampering up and down the cabin-stair, dashing their uncouth bodies against the closed door.

The Chilian has now quite surrendered to despair; while Don Gregorio, who had also lost hope of help from man, still has faith in Heaven. Hence the prayerful appeal; which with unabated fervour he once more sends up:—

“Virgen Santissima! Mother of God, have mercy!”

All at once Lantanas, catching the words, and raising his head, cries out:

“Virgin! Hach! There’s no virgin!—No mother of God, nor God neither!”

“Captain Lantanas!”

“Don’t captain me! I’m not a captain. I’m a poor miserable creature—starving with hunger—dying of thirst. Merciful Virgin, indeed! Where’s her mercy? If she has it, let her show. Let her find me food and drink. Cakes and fruit there! Nothing of the sort. Stones, painted stones! And those other things! Bottles they call them—bottles and decanters. All a deception. They’re imps—some demigods! See how they dance. Let’s join them! Come, old Zanzibar! Bring your fiddle! And my Bornean beauties, come you. We’ll have a grand fandango. We’ll make a dancing room of the Condor’s deck, and kick up our heels high as the cuddy head. That’s the way we’ll do it. Ha—ha—ha! Ha—ha—ha!”

“O God!” groans Don Gregorio, “Lantanas has lost his reason!”

Chapter Sixty Nine.

Help from Heaven.

For long, the Chilian skipper continues to rave, rolling his eyes about, now and then glaring fiercely at Don Gregorio, as though he wished to stretch across the table and tear him. Fortunate he is confined now.

At first the ex-haciendado spoke kindly, endeavouring to soothe him; but seeing it idle, he has ceased; and now makes no further attempt.

To converse with him would be only painful, and indeed the sight is sufficiently so, suggesting to Don Gregorio what may be his own fate. At times he almost fancies himself the same, as sweeps through his soul the thought of his accumulated calamities.

He wishes that death would relieve him, and has prayed for it more than once. He prays for it again, silently, with his eyes resting on the sea. He awaits the final hour, longing for it to come, his features set in calm, Christian resignation.

Suddenly their expression changes, a ray of renewed hope shooting athwart his face. Not a ray, but a beam, which spreads over his whole countenance, while his eyes kindle into cheerfulness, and his lips become parted in a smile!

Is he about to echo the mad laugh of Lantanas?

No! In that look there is no sign of unseated reason.

On the contrary, he gazes with intelligent earnestness, as at something outside demanding investigation.

Soon his lips part farther, not now to smile, but speak words that involuntarily issue from them. Only two little words, but of large import and greatest cheer:

“A sail!”

For such he has espied; a white speck away off on the line that separates the two blues, but distinguishable from waif of floating foam or wing of gull. Beyond doubt, a sail—a ship!

Once more, hope is in his heart, which bounding up, beats audibly within his breast.

Higher and louder, as the white speck shows larger, and assumes shape. For the tall narrow disc, rising tower-like against the sky, can only be the spread canvas of a ship.

And gradually growing taller, he at length sees she is standing towards the barque!

Intently he continues to watch the distant sail! Silently, without saying aught of it to his companion, or in any way communicating with him. It would be of no use; the mind of the Chilian is closed against outward impressions, and now is not the time to attempt opening it.

Hopefully, Don Gregorio continues gazing, but not without anxiety. Once before he has had disappointment from a similar sight. It may be so again.

But, no; that ship was standing across the Condor’s track, while this is sailing in the same course—sailing after, apparently, with the intention to come up; and though slowly, surely drawing nearer; as he can tell by her canvas increasing in the bulk, growing broader and rising higher upon the horizon.

A long time elapses—nearly half-a-day—during which he has many hopes and fears, alternating as the hours pass.

But the hopes are at length in the ascendant, and all anxiety passes as the pursuing ship shows her dark hull above the water-line, and he can distinguish her separate sails. They are all set. What joy in his heart as his eyes rest on them! They seem the wings of merciful angels, coming to relieve him from his misery!

And the flag floating above—the flag of England! Were it the banner of his own Spain, he could not regard it with greater gladness, or gratitude. For surely he will be saved now?

Alas! while thus congratulating himself, he sees what causes his heart again to go down within him, bringing back keenest apprehensions. The strange vessel is still a far distance off, and the breeze impelling her, light all along, has suddenly died down—not a ripple showing on the sea’s surface—while her sails now hang loose and limp. Beyond doubt is she becalmed.

But the Condor! Will she, too, cease sailing?

Yes; she must, from the same cause. Already she moves slowly, scarce making way. And now—now she is motionless! He can tell it, by the glass rack and lamps overhead, that hang without the slightest oscillation. Anon, the barque gradually swings round, and he loses sight of the ship. Through the windows he still beholds the sea, calm and blue, but vacant; no outline of hull—no expanded sail—no flouting flag to keep up his heart, which is once more almost despondent.

But only for a short time; again rising as the barque, sheering round, brings once more her stern towards the ship, and he sees the latter, and something besides—a boat!

It is down in the water, and coming on toward the Condor, the oar-blades flashing in the sun and flinging spray-drops that seem like silver stars!

The barque swinging round, he has the boat in view but a short while. What matters it now? He is certain of being saved!

And he looks no longer—only listens.

Soon to hear words spoken in a strong manly voice, to him sweeter than music. It is the hail:

“Barque ahoy!”

In feeble accents he makes answer, and continues to call out, till other voices, echoing along the Condor’s decks, become commingled with his own.

Then there are footsteps on the quarterdeck, soon after heard descending the cabin-stair.

The handle is turned, the door pushed open, and a swish of fresh air sweeps in, men along with it; as they enter, giving utterance to wild exclamations.

Wrenching his neck around, he sees there are two of them, both in the uniform of naval officers, and both known to him!

Their presence causes him strange emotions, and many—too many for his strength so long and sorely tried.

Overpowered by the sight, he becomes unconscious, as though instead of gladdening, it had suddenly deprived him of life!

Chapter Seventy.

Conjectures too True.

No need to say that the two officers who have entered the Condor’s cabin are Crozier and Cadwallader. For she is the polacca-barque chased by a frigate, and that frigate the Crusader.

The cry simultaneously raised by them is one of strange intonation, telling less of surprise, than conjecture too fatally confirmed.

While in chase of the barque, and her national colours were first made out, they had no thought of connecting her with the vessel which Don Gregorio Montijo had chartered to take him to Panama. True, they had heard that this was a Chilian vessel, and her skipper of that nation. But they had also been told she was a ship, not a barque. And as among the many craft in San Francisco Bay, neither had noticed her, how would they think of identifying her with the chased polacca.

Gradually, however, as the frigate drew upon her, certain suspicions of a painful nature began to shape themselves in Crozier’s mind; still so vague he did not deem it worth while communicating them to Cadwallader. He remembered having seen a polacca-masted vessel in the harbour of San Francisco; besides, that she was a ship. And so far as his recollection served, she was of the same size as that running before the frigate. Besides, he could distinctly recall the fact of her flying Chilian colours. The peculiar style of her masting had drawn his attention to her.

And while they were still pursuing the barque, and commenting on the coincident statement of the brig and whaler about men having been aboard of her covered with red hair, Crozier also recalled a statement strangely significant, which Harry Blew had made to one of the men who had rowed Cadwallader ashore, on the day the Crusader sailed. Blew had been aboard the Chilian vessel, and being asked by his old shipmate what sort of crew she had, laughingly replied: “Only a black man, and two red ones.” Pressed for an explanation about the red ones, he said they were a couple of orang-outangs.

Putting these odd data together, and comparing them, the Crusader’s third lieutenant began to have an uneasy feeling, as they followed the retreating vessel. That she was a barque, and not a ship, meant nothing. As a seaman, he knew how easy the conversion—how often made.

When at length both vessels lay becalmed, and an order for boarding was given, he had solicited the command—by a private word to the frigate’s captain, as had Cadwallader the leave to accompany him; the latter actuated by impulses not very dissimilar.

When both at length climbed the barque’s sides, saw the red monkeys on deck, and the black man in the galley, their apprehension became sharpened to the keenest foreboding—far more than a presentiment of misfortune.

Alas! as they entered the Condor’s cabin, beholding its fulfilment.

The cry that escaped their lips came on the recognition of Don Gregorio Montijo; followed by other exclamations, as they looked at the two unoccupied chairs, a fan upon the one, a scarf over the back of the other. It was then that Crozier rushing upon deck, sent the cutter off for the surgeon, himself instantly returning to the cabin.

Still wilder—almost a wail—is the shout simultaneously raised by the young officers, when, after dashing open the state-room doors, they look in and see all empty!

They turn to those at the table, asking information—entreating it: one answers with a strange Bedlamite laugh; the other not at all. It is Don Gregorio who is silent. They see that his head is hanging over. He appears insensible.

“Great God! is he dead?”

They glide towards him, grasp table-knives, and cut the cords that have been confining him. Senseless, he sinks into their arms.

But he is not dead; only in a faint. Though feebly, his pulse still beats!

With wine they wet his lips—the wine so long standing untasted! They open his mouth, and pour some of it down his throat, then stand over him to await the effect.

Soon his pulse grows stronger, and his eyes sparkle with the light of reviving life.

Laid gently along the sofa, he is at length restored to consciousness; with sufficient strength to answer the questions eagerly put to him. There are two, simultaneously asked, almost echoes of one another.

“Where is Carmen? Where is Iñez?”

“Gone!” he gasps out. “Carried away by the—”

He does not finish the speech. His breath fails him, and he seems relapsing into the syncope from which he has been aroused. Fearing this, they question him no farther, but continue to administer restoratives. They give him more wine, making him also eat of the fruits found upon the table.

They have also set the skipper free; but soon see cause to regret it. He strides to and fro, flings his arms about in frenzied gesture, clutches at decanters, glasses, bottles, and breaks them against one another, or dashes them down upon the floor. He needs restraining, and they do that, by shutting him up in a state-room.

Returning to Don Gregorio, they continue to nurse him; all the while wishing the surgeon to come.

While impatiently waiting they hear a hail from the top of the cabin-stairs. It is their coxswain, who shouts:—

“Below there!”

He is about to announce the cutter’s return from the frigate.

Ah no! It is not that; but something different; which instead of gratifying, gives them a fresh spasm of pain. Listening, they hear him say:—

“Come on deck, Mr Crozier! There’s a bank o’ black fog rollin’ up. It’s already close on the barque’s starboard bow. It look like there’s mischief in’t; and I believe there be. For God’s sake, hurry up, sir!”

Chapter Seventy One.

A Struggle with the Storm.

The summons of the coxswain is too serious to be disregarded; and soon as hearing it, the two officers hasten upon deck, leaving Don Gregorio reclining along the settee.

Glancing over the barque’s starboard bow, they behold a sky black as Erebus. It is a fog-bank, covering several points of the compass. But while they stand regarding it, it lengthens along the horizon, at the same time rising higher against the heavens. They can see that it is approaching, spreading over the ocean like a pall. And, where it shadows the water, white flakes show themselves, which they know to be froth churned up by the sharp stroke of a wind-squall.

They do not stand idly gazing. All three recognise the threatening danger. They only cast a glance towards the frigate, and, perceiving they can hope for no help from her, at once commence taking measures for themselves. “To the sheets!” shouts Crozier. “Let fly all!”

At the command, the midshipman and coxswain bound off to execute it, the lieutenant himself assisting; since there are but the three to do the work. For the negro, released by Grummet, despite half a pint of rum poured down his throat, is scarcely able to keep his feet. No help, therefore, to be had from him, nor any one else.

But the three strong men, with confidence in their strength, and with knowledge to comprehend the approaching peril, take the proper steps to avert it—these being, as Crozier has commanded, to let go everything.

Working as if for life, they cast off sheets and halyards, and let the canvas flap free. No time for clewing up, or making snug: no thought of either. The sails must take their chance, though they get split into shreds, which they are pretty sure to do.

This actually occurs, and soon. Scarce has her canvas been released from its sheets and tacks, when the barque becomes enveloped in a dense cloud, and the wind strikes like a cannon shot against her sails. Luckily, they were loosed in time. If still stiff set, the masts would have gone by the board, or the Condor on her beam-ends. And luckily, too, before struck, Grummet had hold of her helm, and, by Crozier’s command, brought her before the wind. To attempt “lying to,” with her sails in such condition, would be to court destruction. To “scud” is their only chance for safety.

And away go they before the wind, which, first blowing in fitful gusts, soon becomes a steady gale, with now and then a violent burst catching still another sail, and rending it to ribbons.

Soon there is not a sound one, and scarce aught save strips of torn canvas hanging from the yards, or streaming out like the flags on a signal-staff.

Fortunately the barque well obeys her helm, and the young officers contrive to set storm-stay and trysail, thus helping to hold her steady.

During all this time they have not thought of the frigate. Absorbed in the endeavour to save the craft that carries them, they reflect not on what may be their fate should they get separated from their own ship.

At length, this reflection arises in a form to appal them. The frigate is out of sight—has been ever since the commencement of the gale, the fog having drifted between. They do not now know the direction in which she is; nor can they tell whether she has lain-to, or, like themselves, “run.” If the latter, there is a hope she will follow the same course; and, the fog lifting, be again sighted.

Alas! it is more likely she will do the former. Full-manned, she will have taken in sail in good time, and made all snug, so as to ride out the storm; and, aware of the danger in which they on the barque will be placed, she will not forsake the spot, but assuredly lie to.

Just as they have arrived at this conclusion, they hear a gun booming above the blast. They know it is from the frigate, firing to let them know her whereabouts. But, although the sound reaches them with sufficient distinctness, they cannot tell the direction. Who could at sea, in a fog?

Listening, they hear it a second time, and soon after a third.

Then again and again; still distinct, but with the same uncertainty as to its direction. For the life of them they cannot determine the point of the compass whence it comes. Even if they knew, it is a question whether they dare set the barque’s head towards it, for the storm has increased to a tempest, and it is touch and go for them to keep the Chilian vessel afloat. Out of trim, she is tossed from wave to wave, shipping seas that threaten to engulf her, or wash everybody overboard.

In this struggle—as it were, for life and death—they lose all hope of being able to keep company with the warship—all thought of it. It will be well if they can but save that they are on from going to the bottom of the sea.

Again they hear the firing, several times repeated—that signal that they are unable to answer, or unable to avail themselves of its friendly warning. Situated as they are, it seems sounding a farewell salute—or it may be their death knell.

Fainter and fainter falls the boom upon their ears; duller and duller at each successive detonation, which tells that the distance between them and the frigate, instead of diminishing, increases. However sad and disheartening, they cannot help it. They dare not put the barque about, or in any way alter her course. They must keep scudding on, though they may never see the Crusader again.

At length, no longer do they hear the signal-guns. Whether from greater distance, or louder vociferation of the tempest, they can no more be distinguished amidst its voices.

Throughout all the night the barque scuds, storm-buffeted, shipping huge seas, yet casting them off, and still keeping afloat. Notwithstanding her distressed condition, she rides the gale through to its termination.

As the morning sun gleams over the ocean, along with the subsiding wind, the fog also lifts, leaving both sea and sky clear. And still the Condor is afloat, rolling from beam to beam; her tall smooth masts as yet in her, her rigging aright, and her bulwarks unbroken. Only the sails have suffered, and they are all gone.

Grummet is at the wheel, guiding her wayward course; while the two officers stand upon her quarterdeck, with eyes bent abroad, scanning the crests of the big billows that go rumbling along.

But there is no Crusader in sight—no frigate—no ship of any kind—nothing but the wide, fathomless ocean!

They are alone upon it, hundreds of leagues from land, aboard a craft they may not be able to manage; and all the more difficult with her sails in shreds. But even were these sound, they have not the strength to set them. They are helpless; but little better off than if they were in an open boat!

In very truth, are they in peril!

But they do not dwell upon it now. A thought still more afflicting is before their minds; and, casting another glance over the ocean—unrewarded as ever—they descend into the cabin, to obtain some particulars of that which has saddened, almost maddened them.

Chapter Seventy Two.

A Card Recovered.

It is the fourth day since the English officers boarded the Chilian barque. They are still on board of her, and she still afloat—the one a sequence of the other; or, she would now be at the bottom of the sea. A tough struggle they have had of it; only the three to manage so large a craft in a tempest which, though short-lived, was fierce as ever swept over the Pacific. And with no aid from any of the other three. Captain Lantanas is still delirious, locked up in his state-room, lest, in his violence, he may do some harm; while Don Gregorio, weak as a child, reclines on the cabin settee, unable to go upon deck. The negro alone, having partially recovered strength, lends some assistance.

The barque’s sails still hang tattered from the spars, for they have since encountered other winds, and had neither the time nor strength to clear them. But they have contrived to patch up the foresail, and bend on a new jib from some spare canvas found in the stores. With these she is making way at the rate of some five or six knots to the hour, her head East and by South. It is twelve o’clock mid-day, and Grummet is at the wheel; the officers on the quarter; Crozier, sextant in hand, “shooting the sun.” They have long since given up hope of finding the frigate, or being found by her at sea.

Aware of this, they are steering the crippled vessel towards Panama in hope of their coming across her. In any case, that is the port where they will be most likely to get tidings of her.

A prey to saddened thoughts are the two young officers, as they stand on the quarterdeck of the Chilian vessel taking the altitude of the sun, with instruments her own skipper is no longer able to use. Fortunately, these had not been carried off, else there would be but little likelihood of their making Panama.

At best, they will reach it with broken hearts; for they have now heard the whole story in all its dark details, so far as Don Gregorio could give them.

Having already determined their longitude by the barque’s chronometer, they have kept it by log-reckoning, and their present observation is but to confirm them in the latitude.

“Starboard your helm!” shouts Crozier to Grummet. “Give her another point to port. Keep her east-by-south. Steady!”

Then turning to Cadwallader, he says:

“If all goes well, we shall make Panama in less than two days. We might do it in one, if we could but set sail enough. Anyhow, I think old Bracebridge will stay for us at least a week. Ah! I wish that were all we had to trouble us. To think they’re gone—lost to us—for ever!”

“Don’t say that, Ned. There’s still a hope we may find them.”

“And found, what then! You needn’t answer. Will; I don’t wish you to speak of it. I daren’t trust myself to think of it. Carmen Montijo—my betrothed—captive to a crew of pirate cut-throats—oh!”

Cadwallader is silent. He suffers the same agony thinking of Iñez.

For a time the picture remains before their minds, dark as their gloomiest fancies can make it. Then across it shoot some rays of hope, saddened, but sweet, for they are thoughts of vengeance. Cadwallader first gives expression to it.

“Whatever has happened to the girls, we shall go after them anyhow. And the robbers, we must find them.”

“Find, and punish them,” adds Crozier. “That we surely shall. If it costs all my money, all the days of my life, I’ll revenge the wrongs of Carmen Montijo.”

“And I those of Iñez Alvarez.”

For a while they stand silently brooding upon that which has brought such black shadow over their hearts. Then Cadwallader says:

“The scoundrels must have plotted it all before leaving San Francisco; and shipped aboard the Chilian vessel for the express purpose of getting this gold. That’s Don Gregorio’s idea of it, borne out by what he heard from that one of them he knew there—Rocas the name, he says.”

“It seems probable—indeed certain,” rejoins Crozier. “Though it don’t much matter how, or when, they planned the damnable deed. Enough that they’ve done it. But to think of Harry Blew turning traitor, and taking part with them! That is to me the strangest thing of all, frightfully, painfully, strange.”

“But do you believe he has acted in such a manner?”

“How can one help believing it? What Don Gregorio heard leaves no alternative. He went off in the boat along with the rest; besides saying words which prove he went willingly. Only to think of such black ingratitude! Cadwallader, I’d as soon have thought of suspecting yourself!”

“His conduct, certainly, seems incredible. I believed Blew to be a thoroughly honest fellow. No doubt the gold corrupted him; as it has many a better man. But let’s think no more about it; only hope we may some day lay hands on him.”