“By me sowl, Tom Stewart, I mane what I say; and Paddy Burns’s word is his bond!”

Ay, and so it was, you generous, whole-souled Milesian! And you did this time make a will. Tom Stewart and Stingo witnessed it, with handsome legacies therein set forth; and when one night you tumbled down––Well, we won’t mention the particulars; but Paddy kept his word.

As the party rose from the breakfast table to get ready for a stroll down to the mill and around the plantation, one fair woman’s hand was placed with a confiding, friendly clasp in that of Monsieur Burns; and then, as a graceful girl reached up to pull down her great flat straw hat from the post, Paddy Burns kissed her on the forehead, and she returned it too, as if she knew how to perform that ceremony even before people. Mr. Reefer Mouse had some thoughts of getting jealous, and calling Mr. Burns out, at ten paces, ships’ pistols, and all that sort of thing; but the round, red-faced gentleman kissed him too, declaring the while, as he held him aloft, that he was first-rate kissing––that he was; nearly as good as mademoiselle, which quite disarmed Tiny’s wrath, and then he hooked on to the damsel’s delicate flipper, and tripped away with her down the valley.

Harry Darcantel exchanged a nod––not of defiance––with Paddy Burns, as much as to hint that those were not dangerous kisses––oh, not at all; and passing his hand over his brown mustache, he followed after the couple before him. Yes, Harry, Tiny’s legs will get tired soon, and he will be hungry, and come back to old Banou for luncheon, while you will be putting aside the coffee bushes, and imploring mademoiselle to keep her straw hat about her lovely face, and not to get tanned by the sun. And when she turns her humid eyes toward you, you begin to believe the sky is never so blue as those eyes!

Tom Stewart, Stingo, and Burns never walked; they preferred lounging about the veranda, smoking cigars, and talking over the price of sugar and coffee, together with minor matters connected with factors’ profits and suits at law. Jacob Blunt leaned over the bridge, thinking of the “Martha Blunts,” brig and wife––not unfrequently confounding the two together––thinking this was to be his last voyage by land or sea, and that young Binks, his mate, should take command, and steer that old teak-built vessel carefully––oh, ever so keerful––or else the old hulk might come to grief.

Piron and his wife going mournfully down the valley––she with her mother’s eyes gazing far out to sea, and he with his strong arm around her, whispering words of consolation; both looking, night and morning, out over the blue water, from chamber and piazza, and seeing nothing but a breaking wave and a baby-boy drowning beneath it––nothing more!

When the sea-breeze came fluttering up the gorge again, through the canes and the coffee-trees, and shaking up the superb foliage of the tropical forest, with the brilliant feathered tribes nestling close together on the lofty branches, and before the first salt breath had been exhaled in the clouds about the topmost peaks of the Blue Mountains, thousands of feet in the air, the party at Escondido had again returned to the broad piazzas, where, with blinds open, and swinging in cool grass hammocks, the men took siesta, while the ladies sought the pretty bowers within.

So passed one happy day, like the one gone before; and before the close of the week Dr. Darcantel joined the party, to take the place of Colonel Lawton; and a few days after old Clinker crackled up, very dry and thorny, with parchment in his pockets to take inventories, and do musty business generally.

Then the fair women, escorted by the navy men, and the Droger and Stingo, took their departure for the town house and ships in Kingston, leaving Paddy Burns, and Tom Stewart, and Clinker with Piron to close up matters, prior to his leaving the island. Paul Darcantel said he would remain with them likewise, since he had got through his business in Spanish Town and Port Royal, and wanted quiet. Madame Rosalie was the last to leave; and before her husband lifted her into the saddle, they stood together on the piazza, she looking with that still yearning gaze over the sea, and seeing nothing but breaking waves. That was the last look from Escondido!

Another week rolled on. Old Clinker had pounded the parchment down as flat as last year’s palm-leaves, rustling himself like the leaves of an old book, and began to squeeze out a few dry remarks about earthquakes. He at last got Paddy Burns, who was a round, fat man, with much blood in him, in such a state of excitement, by talking about cracks, and yawning chasms, and splits in the earth, clouds of dust, sulphureous smells, and beams falling down and pressing people to powder over their wine, that Paddy declared he thought he was swallowing sawdust and eating dried codfish at every sip of Antigua punch and suck of orange he took.

Tom Stewart, likewise, said he couldn’t sleep a wink for quaking, and had cut a slice clean out of his chin while shaving, because his glass shook by a slamming door, and he thought his time had come.

Darcantel said nothing, but he took a quiet fancy to old Clinker, and talked for hours with him of the effect earthquakes had upon ships, and especially of general matters connected with the shipping interest, being withal very particular with regard to the appearance of the crews.

Piron looked grave, and heard the old clerk out, as if dried fruit were better than fresh, and limes sweeter than oranges.

Well, they were all sitting over their dessert at their last dinner at Escondido, for they were all going to leave old Clinker in the morning.

“Well, Clinker,” said Piron, kindly, “don’t let us talk any more about the earthquake. You told me yesterday that you had a note from Colonel Lawton, saying he would not take passage in the brig with us to New Orleans, as his business obliged him to leave before we could sail?”

Clinker choked out something like “Yes,” as if it were the last sound a body could sigh with three or four hundred tons on his back.

“I’m dooced glad to hear it, Piron; for your military friend didn’t enlist my fancy at all, and I don’t believe any more of his patriot sarvice than I do in Clinker’s earthquake. That colonel is a baste; and if my words prove true, I’ll lave a thousand pounds to old Clinker there.”

Paddy Burns’s words did prove true; and old Clinker was with him when he gave a quake the earth had nothing to do with, it being entirely of an apoplectic nature; but he got the thousand pounds nevertheless.

“For once in your life, Burns, I agree with ye; and if that military mon went to shoot grouse with me in the Hielands, I’d tramp behind him, and keep both barrels of me gun cocked. The devil take his black wig and his green eyes! and he passing himsel’ aff for a Scot, too! Tut, mon!”

“By the way, Clinker,” said Piron, during a pause in the conversation, “if the colonel is not going with us, I must take him back his magnificent snuff-box he forgot when he left us so suddenly the other morning. Here it is, with the letters of his name on it in brilliants. I thought it too valuable to send by one of the blacks, and I kept it to carry myself.”

How singular it was that the colonel should have forgotten his royal treasure! Keep your wits about you, Captain Brand, or one of these days you’ll be forgetting your pistols.

“Given to him by a connection of his family, was it, Paddy? Weel, mon, let’s take a peench for the honor of Sackveel Street, and then push it along to Meester Darcantel.”

The doctor was sitting in his calm, grave way, listening to the disjointed words––like dry nuts dropping on the ground––from the shriveled lips of Clinker; but as he abstractedly put his fingers in the box, and turned his eyes languidly as he pushed down the lid, he gave a bound from his chair––with the box clutched in his left hand––giving a jar to the room and table that even made Clinker believe the forty-year earthquake had come before its time.

“Who owns this bawble?”

“It belongs to a Colonel Lawton who has been staying here!” exclaimed Piron, quickly and hurriedly.

“What sort of man?” came again from those terrible lungs, without relaxing a muscle of his frame.

“A square-built, tallish fellow, of about feefty, with greenish-blue eyes, a black wig, and a glorious sapphire ring on the only finger of his left hand!” roared Burns and Stewart together.

Again came the jar of the earthquake to make the building, table, glasses, and all shake, as Paul Darcantel strode with his heels of adamant out of the sala and to the veranda; then a bound, which was heard in the room; and after five minutes’ stupid silence Banou appeared.

The buckra gentleman had torn rather than led his master’s barb from the stable, and scarcely waiting for a saddle, had thrown himself like an Indian across his back. There! his master might hear the clattering of the hoofs up the steep.

“The mon’s daft––clean daft, mon!” “Be me sowl, it’s the only pair of eyes I iver wouldn’t like to look at over me saw-handled friend, Joe Manton!” “He’s taken the box with him,” crackled Clinker.

But that was the last that Paddy Burns, or Stewart, or Clinker ever saw of man or box. Piron rose and listened to the sound of the receding hoofs from the veranda; and when he resumed his place his lips were sealed for the night. He saw, however, and the rest of them heard a good deal about the man and the box in time to come.

Did that blooded horse, as he dashed round the curve of the peak, with his thin nostrils blazing red in the dark night, know who his rider was, and on what errand he was bound? It was not snuff that distended those wide nostrils as he plunged down the broken road, through the close, deep forest, over rocks and water-courses, without missing a step with his sure, ringing hoofs; and mounting the sharp gorge beyond with the leap of a stag, his mane and tail streaming in the calm, thick night; the eyes lanterns of pursuing light, flashing out before his precipitous tread in jets of fire, as his feet struck the flinty stones, with a regular, enduring throb from his heaving chest, as an encouraging hand patted his shoulder and urged him onward.

“Here, my boys, rub this your master’s horse down well, and walk him about the court-yard for an hour. There! Take this between you!”

One last pat of the steed’s arched neck, a grateful neigh as the dark face pressed against his broad head, and Paul Darcantel strode away in the gray light of the morning.

“Gorra mighty! Nimble Jack, look at dis! Bress my modder in hebben, it am one gold ounce apiece, sure as dis gemman’s name Ring Finger Bill! De Lord be good to dat tall massa! Him must hab plenty ob shiner to hove him away on poor niggers!”

Even while the tall man strode on toward the port, and as the happy blacks were chattering over their yapper, and walking the gallant steed up and down the paved court-yard, a dull, heavy-sailing Spanish brigantine was slowly sagging past Gallows Point and the Apostles’ Battery, when, creeping on by the frowning forts of Port Royal, she held her course to sea.

By day and night, under sun or moon, and in breeze or calm––by the resounding shore––on the rippling water––in saloon and grove, picnicking and boating––under vine or awning––all around in the whirling waltz, the measured contra-danza––amid the tinkle of guitar or trill of piano, the rattle and crash of the full band on board the frigate––gently rocking on the narrow deck of the “Rosalie,” or down in the brig of teak, there was ever a white arm linked in the arm of blue––now timidly, then with a confiding pressure––now a furtive look of blue eyes into dark, then a fixed, steady gaze from the brown to the light––here a palpitating pause, and then the blue arms wound around the waving stem––two white arms clasping, with a passionate caress, the neck of the weed––and, yes! the lily floating on the white cheek of the pond had been caught by the strong weed, and with the reacting tide was going out to sea! Ay! the sailor had won the maiden!

But while the lily rocked hither and thither on the pond, with its blond leaves and petals of blue, and its pliant stem in danger at every tide, did the fond mothers watch it from the bank? That they did, thinking of the time when they were lilies of the pond themselves, with no fears of danger near. But at last it came, and, like blooming flowers, they swung to and fro in the rain, dropping a tear or two from their own rosy leaves––more in dewy sorrow than in fear––and waiting for sunshine; bending their beautiful heads of roses the while one toward another, peeping out with their dark violet eyes, and listening, as the wind shook them, with a tremble of apprehension, and clinging hopefully to the straight support on which they reclined.

Oh, Paul, that cowardly villain saw you from the very moment you took that pinch of snuff out of his blue enameled box––ay, even before, when you walked your mule slowly up the broken road, while a goaded barb was curbed back in the gloomy forest till you had passed, with his rider’s finger in his waistcoat pocket. And in all your ceaseless wanderings, by day and night, that now timid, terror-stricken villain has been following you; dodging behind corners––under the well-worn cloths of monté banks––in the back rooms of pulperias––hiding in nests of infamy––every where and in all places steering clear of you.

Oh, Paul! what a deceived man you are!

And while you are doing all this, just turn your eyes out to the calm spot off Montego Bay, where that leaky old brigantine is bobbing about. The dirty, surly capitano kicking and beating the hands from taffrail to bowsprit, particularly one great tall fellow, without a hat, and but a few dry thin hairs to shield his skull from the scorching sun; cursing him, as he puffs a cigarette, for being the most idle scoundrel of a skulk on board! But he––the scoundrel!––laughing with a hollow laugh up the sleeve of his filthy shirt, with never a dollar in his belt or an extra pair of trowsers in the forecastle, with bare feet, and still, cold eyes, now turned to green––eating nasty jerked beef and drinking putrid water––never sleeping for vermin––kicked and cuffed about the decks.

But yet he smiled with a devilish satisfaction, Paul, for he has escaped you, and was bound to St. Jago de Cuba! From there he would charter––steal, perhaps––a small boat, and run over to the Doçe Léguas Cays, where there were ten thousand pounds in mildewed gold!––if nobody had discovered it, which was not probable––and he––the scoundrel!––would gather it up in bags, and slink away to some other part of the world.

You must be very quick, Captain Brand, for the leaky brigantine does not sail so fast as the “Centipede,” and your ancient compadre, Don Ignaçio, is just out of prison. His old, fat, banana wife is very sorry for it, but that’s none of your business.

And you, Doctor Paul! don’t you pity that flying, dirty wretch, with his mutilated hand, and soul-beseeching gaze out of those greenish frozen eyes, where a ray of mercy never entered, but whose icy lids fairly crack as your shadow stamps across them?

No, not a ray of pity or mercy for the infamous villain; not even a twitch of the little finger of his bloody, mutilated white hand! No, not the faintest hope of pity! He shall die in such torments as even a pirate never devoted a victim.

But you are worn out, Darcantel; your prey has escaped you. The people think you mad, as you are, for revenge; and though your stride is the same, and your frame still as nervous as a galvanized corpse, yet flesh and blood can not stand it. Go on board the “Monongahela,” and talk to that true friend whose counsels you have ever listened to since you were rocking in your cradle; or take that noble, gallant youth in your arms and console him––for he needs consolation––and think of the mouse who gnawed the net years and years ago.

Well, you will, Paul Darcantel; but before you do, you will step into that jeweler’s shop and buy a trifle for old Clinker there, out at Escondido. You want a ring, the finest gem that can be found on the island of Jamaica. There it is––its equal not to be bought in the whole West India Islands, or the East Indies either.

“I gave a military man an ounce for the setting alone, but the sapphire-looking stone may be glass. He was going to sail the next morning in a Spanish brigantine for St. Jago de Cuba, and wanted the money to pay his bill at the lodging-house adjoining. The señor might take it for any price he chose to put upon it.”

What made that old dealer in precious stones and trinkets turn paler than his old topaz face as he yelled frantically for his older Creole wife? The señor had seized the ring as he broke his elbows through the glass cases which contained the time-honored jewelry, and dashed a yellow shower of heavy gold ounces over the floor of the little shop, smashing the glass door of that too in his exit! And when the little toddling fat woman appeared in the most indecent dress possible to conceive of, with scarcely time to light her paper cigar, she exclaimed,

“Es lunatico, hombre! ay, demonio con oro! A crazy man––a demon with gold!” And forthwith she picked up the pieces and looked at them critically to be sure of their value. “Son buenos, campeche! All right, old deary; we’ll have such a podrida to-day! Baked duck, with garlic too! So shut the door. There’s the ounce you gave the officer man for the ring, and I’ll guard the rest.”

Paul Darcantel whirled and spun round the corners and along the sandy streets till he reached the landing, moving like a water-spout, and clearing every thing from his track. There he sprang into the first boat he saw, seized the sculls, despite the shrieks and gesticulations of the old nigger whose property it was, and who jumped overboard with a howl as if a lobster had caught him by the toe, and paddled into a neighboring boat, where, with the assistance of another ancient crony, they both let off volley upon volley of shrieks, which alarmed the harbor, while the boat went shooting like a javelin toward the men-of-war.

However, those old stump-tailed African baboons found a gold ounce in their boat after it had been set adrift from the American frigate. What a jolly snapping of teeth over a tough old goose stuffed with onions that night, with two respectable colored ladies and a case-bottle of rum beside them! You can almost sniff the fragrant odor as it arises, even at this distance. I do, and shall, mayhap, many a time again, in lands where stuffed goose and comely colored ladies abound.

There had been a small party on board the “Monongahela” the night before to bid the commodore good-by––all old friends of both parties––the Pirons, Burns, Stewart, Stingo, and Jacob Blunt. Clinker was not there, for he never went where it was damp, and if he got musty it must be from mildew on shore. The “Martha Blunt,” under the careful management of young Binks, the mate, with Banou and all the baggage on board, was being towed by two of the frigate’s boats down the harbor, with her yards mast-headed, all ready to sheet home the sails when the black pilot should say the land-wind would make and the passengers to come on board.

The lights were twinkling from lattice and veranda in the upper and lower town, the lanterns of the French and English admirals were shining from the tops of their flag-ships, and the revolving gleams from the beacon on the Pallissadoes Point flickered and dazzled over the gemmed starlit surface of the water. The awning was still spread on the after-deck of the “Monongahela;” and there, while the officer of the watch paced the forward part of the deck with the midshipmen to leeward, the sentries on the high platform outside and on the forecastle, the party of ladies and gentlemen stood silently watching and thinking.

Even old Clinker, as he sat on his stem by the old worm-eaten desk, with his dried old lemon of a face lying in his leaves of hands––with no light in the dark, deserted old counting-house––looked out between his fibres of fingers and saw the cradle, with the sleeping twins within it, while the rafters pressed him as flat as the old portfolio before him. And now, as a drop or two of bitter juice exuded from his shriveled rind, he saw those lovely twins floating away, never more to be saved from an earthquake by old Clinker.

Mr. Mouse, likewise, was wide awake, and hopping about with a kangaroo step, a little in doubt why Miss Rosalie was so pale, why those blue eyes were so dim, and why she said to him “Go away, little one,” with a quivering, tremulous voice and hand. Mouse told Rat, and Rat told Martin and Beaver, that the poor girl was in love with him, Tiny, and that he would make it all right one of these days, when he got an epaulet on his little shoulder.

Softly, like the cool breath of a slumbering child, came a faint air from the land. The bell of the frigate, clanging in its brassy throat, struck for midnight. The sentinels on their posts cried “All’s well!” The old brig was letting fall her top-sails, and the sound of the oars in the cutter’s row-locks ceased.

“Cleveland,” said Piron, quietly, “while the ladies and our friends are getting into the barge, come down with me in your cabin. I wish to have a parting word with you.”

So they go down.

“Now, my dear friend, you have seen as well as I how wildly those young people are in love with each other; so has my wife and her sister; and, indeed, my sweet Rosalie seems more in love with him than our niece. I have not had the heart to put a thorn in the path of their happiness, and God grant it may all come right. But, Cleveland, you know that we come from an old and noble stock, where the bar sinister has never crossed our escutcheon, and I can not yet make up my mind to an immediate engagement. This our niece has consented to––Stop, Cleveland, hear me out. I do not, however, carry my prejudices to any absurd extent, nor have I spoken on this subject to the girl, and only to her mother and my wife; but I wish you to explain the way we feel, in your own kind manner, to your friend’s son. Say to him what a trial it has been to us––how we all love him”––he pressed his handkerchief to his eyes––“and after he has learned all, if he still persists in urging his suit when the cruise is over, he shall have our consent and blessing. Time may work changes in them both; and meanwhile I shall not mention the matter to our little Rosalie, as we fear for the consequences.”

“The ladies are in the barge, commodore,” squeaked Midshipman Mouse, as he popped his tiny head into the cabin.

“Very well, sir. And tell Lieutenant Darcantel that I wish to see him to-morrow morning, before church service. Come, Piron!”

On the lower grating of the accommodation-ladder stood the commodore, with his first lieutenant, as the barge shoved off.

“I am heartily obliged to you, Commodore Cleveland,” said Jacob Blunt, “for your kindness to me; and if Mr. Hardy will permit, I’ll give the boats’ crews a glass of grog for their trouble in towing the old brig.”

Certainly! Jacob knew what was proper under the circumstances, and liked a moderate toss himself after a hard night’s work as well as the lusty sailors in the boats, and the youngsters, Rat and Martin, who steered them.

So the barge shoved off, with no other words spoken, though there were white handkerchiefs wet with women’s tears, and red bandanas, too, somewhat moist; while following in the barge’s wake went a light whale-boat gig, pulled by four old tars, who could make her leap, when they had a mind, half out of water, for it was in those brawny old arms to do it. But now they merely dipped the long oar-blades in the water, and could not keep up with the barge.

They knew––those corrugated old salts––that their gallant, considerate young captain there in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in his hands, who steered so wildly about the harbor, had something more yielding than white-laced rope in his flippers; and that the sweet little craft under white dimity, with her head throwing off the sparkling spray as she lay under his bows, was in no hurry to go to sea––not caring much, either, to what port she was bound, so long as she found good holding-ground when she got in harbor with both bowers down, and cargo ready for another voyage––not she!

Finally, old Jacob Blunt, master, again in full command of brig “Martha,” with Mr. Binnacle Binks catting the anchor forward, all sail made, sheets home, and every thing shipshape, with a fresh, steady land-wind, and a light gig towing astern, went steering out to sea, bound to New Orleans by way of the Windward Passage.

“Take keer, sir, if it’s the same to you, or we’ll be on that ledge off the ‘’Postles’ Battery.’ It looks jist like that ’ere reef in the Vargin’s Passage as I was wunce nearly ’racked on, in the ‘Smasher,’ sixteen-gun brig.”

“No fear, Harry Greenfield.”

“Beg your parding, Mr. Darcantel, but that ’ere wessel you is heading for is that old clump of a Spanish gun-boat; our craft is off here, under the quarter of the ‘Monongaheelee.’”

“Oh yes, Charley; I see the ‘Rosalie.’”

What made these old salts slew gravely round one to the other, as their sixteen-feet oars rattled with a regular jar in the brass row-locks, and shut one eye tight, as if they enjoyed something themselves? Probably they were thinking of a strapping lass, in blue ribbons, who lived somewhere in a sea-port town long years ago. But yet they loved that young slip of sea-weed, whose head was bent down to the buttons of his blue jacket, his epaulet lopsided on his shoulder, his sword hilt downward, and his brown eyes tracing the lines of the ash grating where pretty feet had once rested, while he jerked the tiller-ropes from side to side, and his gig went wild by reef and point toward the “Rosalie.”

When the gig’s oars at last, in spite of her meandering navigation by her abstracted helmsman, trailed alongside the schooner, and while her crew were cracking a few biscuits and jokes on deck, with the sun high up the little craft’s masts, her captain hurried down to his small cabin, and changed his rig for service on board the frigate.

Sunday morning in Kingston harbor. The deep-toned bells from cathedral and church were wafted off from the town; the troops at Park Camp marching with easy tread to their chapel; matrons and maidens, with bare heads, fans, and mantillas, going along demurely; portly judges, factors, and planters trudging beside palanquins of their Saxon spouses; negroes in white; Creoles in brown, cigarettes put out for a time; while swinging censers and rolling sound of organs and chants, or prayers and sermons from kirk and pulpits, told how the people were worshiping God according to their several beliefs.

On the calm harbor, too, and in Port Royal, lay the men-of-war, the church pennants taking the place of the ensigns at the peaks, the bells tolling, and the sailors––quiet, clean, and orderly––were attending divine service.

On board the “Monongahela” the great spar-deck was comparatively deserted––all save that officer with his spy-glassing old quarter-master, and the sentries on gangway and forecastle. The ropes, however, were flemished down in concentric coils, the guns without a speck of dust on their shining coats, the capstan polished like an old brass candlestick, and every thing below and aloft in a faultless condition.

As Harry Darcantel came rather languidly over the gangway, and went down to the main deck, where the five hundred sailors in snowy-white mustering clothes were assembled, Commodore Cleveland beckoned to him with his finger as he stood talking at the cabin door to his first lieutenant.

The stiff soldier laid his white-gloved finger on the visor of his hat. Then the chaplain, standing on his flag-draped pulpit at the main-mast, with those five hundred quiet, attentive sailors seated on capstan-bars and match-tubs between the silent cannon, and no sound save his mild, persuasive voice, as he read the sublime service from the good lessons before him. Then, after a short but impressive sermon, adapted to the comprehension of the honest tars around him, with a kindly word, too, for the sagacious officers who commanded them, he closed the holy book and delivered the parting benediction.

As he began, a shore boat, in spite of the warning of the sentry at the gangway, came bows on to the frigate’s solid side, and as she went dancing and bobbing back from the recoil of the concussion, a tall, powerful man leaped out of her, and, by a mighty spring, caught the man-ropes of the port gangway, and swung himself through the open port of the gun-deck. Bowing his lofty head with reverential awe as the last solemn words of the benediction were uttered by the chaplain, he joined, in a deep, guttural voice, the word “Amen,” and strode on and entered the cabin.

The curtains were closely drawn of the after cabin, even to shut out the first whisper of the young sea-breeze which was fluttering in from Port Royal; and there stood that noble officer, with his strong arm thrown around the gallant youth––the picture of abject woe––talking in his kind, feeling accents, trying to console him, painting the sky bright in the distance, and begging him, by all the love and affection he bore him through so many years, to be a man, and trust to his good conscience and his right arm to cleave his way through the clouds and gloom which surrounded him.

“There, Henry, you are calmer now. Sit down here in my stateroom, and while you think of that fond girl, give a thought to that poor bereaved mother, Madame Rosalie, who loves you for the resemblance she thinks you bear to her little boy, who was murdered by pirates just seventeen years ago off this very island.”

“What do you say, Cleveland?” said a voice behind him, with such deep, concentrated energy that the commodore fairly started. “What did you say about a lost child and a Madame Rosalie?”

Paul Darcantel stood there in the softened crimson light, with his sinewy, bony hands upraised, his gaunt breast heaving, with unshorn beard and tangled, grizzly locks, the iron jaw half open, and his dark, terrible eyes gleaming with unearthly fire.

“Speak, Harry Cleveland! For the wife you have lost, speak!”

“Merciful God!” said Paul Darcantel, sinking down on his knees, with his hands clasped together, while the first tears for more than twenty years streamed from his agonized eyes. “There is a Providence in it all! That boy is not my son! I saved him from the pirate’s grasp, and that woman must be his mother!”

Lower and lower the lofty head bent till it touched the deck, the bony hands clasped tight together, and those eyes––ah! those parched eyes––no longer dry!

“Paul, Paul, what is this I hear? For the love of heaven and those angels who are waiting for us, speak again!”

“My father––my more than father, I am not illegitimate, then! No such shame may cause your boy to blush for his mother?”

While strong and loving arms raised the exhausted man from the deck, and while he becomes once more the same determined Paul Darcantel, and with hand grasped in hand is rapidly recounting unknown years of his existence, let us leave the cabin.

Down in the steerage, where a bare cherry table stood, and upright lockers ranged around, with a lot of half-starved reefers devouring their dinner––not near so good or well served as the sailors’ around their mess-cloths on the upper decks––with a few urchins utterly regardless of steerage grub, and a dollar or two in their little fists, all nicely dressed in blue jackets and white trowsers, waiting for the hands to be turned to and the boats manned, to go on shore for a lark.

Abaft in the wardroom, two or three of the swabs, the surgeon’s mates, and the jaunty young marine lieutenant were getting into their bullion coats and fine toggery, and buckling on their armor to do sad havoc among the planters’ families in the evening, away there in Upper Kingston. As for the first lieutenant, the purser, the fleet surgeon, the sailing-master, and the old major of marines, they had been ashore before, and didn’t care to go again; growling jocosely among themselves on board the frigate, and glad to get rid of the juvenile gabble.

Presently, and before the hands were turned to from dinner, the cabin bell rang so violently that the orderly’s brass scale-plate fixtures on his leather hat fairly rang too as he opened the sacred door.

“Tell the first lieutenant I want him.”

The dismayed soldier forgot to lay his white worsted finger on his visor as he slammed to the door and marched out on the gun-deck.

“Mr. Hardy, unmoor ship! Hoist a jack at the fore and fire a gun for a pilot! Get the frigate under weigh, sir, and be quick about it!”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

As Hardy rapidly passed his old cronies, who were tramping along the deck as he mounted the after-ladder, he said, with a nod,

“By the Lord! I haven’t seen the commodore in such a breeze since he blew that pirate out of water at Darien.”

In a minute the “Monongahela’s” bell struck two, and the boatswain and his mates, piping as if their hairy throats would split, roared out, “All hands!” and a moment later, “All hands unmoor ship!”

“What does that mean?” said a cook of a mess to Jim Dreen, the old quarter-master, who had just come down from his watch.

“Mean? why, you lazy, blind duff b’iler, it means that I’ve lost my blessed dinner.”

“Hallo!” says Rat to Beaver, “what’s that? Unmoor ship on my liberty day! I swear I’ll resign!”

No you won’t, reefers, but you’ll trip aloft as fast as your little legs will carry you––Mouse in company––up to the fore, main, and mizzen tops, and squeak there as much as you like; but jump about and look sharp that nothing goes wrong, or Mr. Hardy will be down upon you like a main tack.

Bang from the bow port and the union jack at the fore!

“God bless my soul, fellows, this is the most infernal tyranny I ever heard of!” came from the wardroom; “all of us engaged to dine and dance in Kingston this evening, and––”

“It’s ‘All hands up anchor, gentlemen!’” and away they all went.

Down went the mess-kids, and down came the awnings, and up came the boats to their davits; in went the bars to both capstans, the nippers clapped on, and the muddy cables coming in to the tunes of fifes; while above the running gear was rove, the Sunday bunts to the sails cast off, and the five hundred sailors dancing about on the decks, spars, and rigging of that American double-banked frigate, as if they could always work her sails and battery to the admiration of their good commodore there, who was looking at them from the quarter-deck.

“Massa captan,” said the shining ebony pilot, in his snowy suit, as he took off his fine white Panama hat, “dis is de ole pilot, sa, Peter Crabreef––name after dat black rock way dere outside. Suppose you tink ob beating dis big frigate troo de channel? Unpossible, wid dis breeze!”

“Peter Crabreef,” said the old sailing-master, to whom these observations were addressed, “you had better not give such a hint to that gentleman there in the epaulets; for if you do, you’ll never see Mrs. Crabreef again! You had better keep your wits about you, too, and plenty of water under the keel, for the commodore is fond of water!”

“Sartainly, massa ossifa! I is old Peter, and never yet touch a nail of man-of-war copper battam on de reefs!”