"But – " blustered the rich merchant.
"Not another word, sir. Wait patiently for my reply. I am your most obedient servant."
And led away by Camotte, the rich shipowner of Boston went out spluttering and perspiring as before.
"Now," said the captain to himself, with a sarcastic smile, "let us see what the other fellow is made of."
He went to the door, and, entering the cavern, bowed to the Frenchman, who was still walking up and down.
"Will you be good enough to come this way, Monsieur Hebrard," he said, with an engaging smile.
The Frenchman looked at him with astonishment, but on a repetition of the invitation went in.
The captain chuckled to himself at this evidence of the other's utter surprise and bewilderment.
It was as if he had scored one.
CHAPTER XVII.
A DIPLOMATIC CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO RASCALS
The two men looked at one another for some minutes in silence, just as two clever duelists might have done before venturing on the attack. But though each tried to read the other, their faces were like marble.
At a mute invitation from the outlaw, the stranger took a seat, and at once commenced the conversation.
"Sir," he said, "it is a matter of surprise, that you, a perfect stranger, should address me by a name – "
"Which is or has once been yours, monsieur," answered the outlaw chief, with freezing politeness.
"That is quite possible. I do not deny it. When one travels in foreign parts on important business, incognito – "
"Is adopted, I am aware, which only deceives fools and dupes," said the outlaw, speaking slowly.
"What do you mean, sir?" cried the other.
"I recollect a certain Count de Mas d'Azyr, an excellent gentleman of Languedoc, who had this mania."
The stranger shivered all over, and a lightning flash darted from beneath his dark and heavy eyebrows.
"Well," continued the outlaw, with imperturbable sang-froid, "his noble manners so thoroughly denounced him, despite the plebeian names he chose to assume, that he was compelled at the end of a few minutes to give up this absurd acting."
"Really, sir," cried the stranger, "I do not see the meaning or relevance of your allusions."
"I permit myself no allusions," said the outlaw, with the utmost suavity. "Very far from it. What matters it to me, I ask, whether you call yourself Hebrard, Count de Mas d'Azyr, Philippe de Salnam, Jean Lerou, or take any other alias?"
"Sir!" cried the other.
"Allow me, I pray, to conclude. In you I only recognise a person who is very warmly recommended to me, who has need of my services, and at whose disposition I therefore place myself at once – ready to serve him if possible," he continued; "at all events we can talk, and I should be glad to know in what way I can be of use."
"Sir," said the stranger, smiling, "you are agreeable and witty. I find that people make mistakes in their idea of you."
"I am obliged by your high consideration," continued the outlaw; "still this does not explain to me – "
"Who I am," cried the other, with feigned candour; "well, sir, considering you have mentioned so many names – "
"You allow, then, that I was right."
"Certainly; you were quite right," answered the other, quickly; "I therefore sincerely beg your pardon."
"It is not at all necessary."
"There is, however, one thing that I must confess puzzles me very much," continued the envoy.
"May I, without offence, ask what that is?"
"No offence. I should certainly be only too glad to have an explanation with you on the subject."
"If it depends upon me," the other said.
"It depends absolutely on you. I always thought I had a good memory. I believe myself to be a very good physiognomist, but really I have no recollection of you."
The outlaw burst into a roar of laughter.
"Which only proves," he added, when he recovered himself, "that I am much more clever at incognito than you."
"Which means – "
"That not only have we met, monsieur, but that we have carried on a long connection," said Tom.
"Many years ago?"
"Not at all, sir. I speak of very recent times, though I will allow that our acquaintance commenced long ago."
"You astonish me," said the Frenchman.
"The matter is very easily explained. We have found ourselves connected at different times, under four different names: I have told you yours, I will now tell mine. Do you remember Louis Querehard? Do you recollect François Magnaud, Paul Sambrun, and Pedro Lopez?"
"Perfectly," cried the other.
"Well, sir, those four individuals you now see present under the name of Tom Mitchell, your very humble servant; though," he added, with exquisite politeness, yet with a tint of irony, "I have several others available on occasion."
"Well, sir," cried the stranger, "you have indeed taken me in. I was a fool not to recognise you."
"Sir!" cried the outlaw.
"Let us call things by their names. It is by far the best plan. I am indeed not to be forgiven for being taken in like any novice. I deserve to be dismissed from the service of the Government which employs me, and which believes me to be worthy of credit, as possessing a certain amount of wit and diplomatic ability. Well, it is useless to discuss the matter any longer. Give me your hand, sir," he cried; "you are my master. We bear no malice."
"I only wanted to prove – " said the outlaw.
"That I was a fool – and I must say you have done so to my entire satisfaction," he added, in a tone of complete good humour. "But however unpleasant the shock is to my self-love, I am delighted at what has happened."
"How so?" asked the outlaw, in the same tone.
"Because the ice is broken between us, and we can come to an understanding; the more readily," he added, "that the matters I have to speak of are the same as before."
"If that be so," said the outlaw, "we can easily come to terms."
"Is it not so? Now here is the affair in two words. The revolution is over in France. Beneath the hand of the mighty man of genius whose talent and patriotism have raised him to power, Government has recovered its strength, society begins to breathe, the nation is once more rising to its proper position amidst the people; New France has entire faith in the man whose every step has hitherto been marked by victory, which has definitively declared on his side."
"I presume," said the outlaw, quietly, "that you are speaking of the General Bonaparte."
"Of no other. This great, this extraordinary man has, with his mighty hand, put down the Jacobins and the mob, driving them back to their original nothingness. He has chained forever the awful hydra of revolution. You have, then, heard of him?"
"Most certainly," said the son of Maillard, coldly.
"I am glad to hear it. This great man, who is as mighty a politician as he is a successful general, has followed, while slightly modifying it, the line traced by the national convention of execrable memory with regard to the Spanish colonies."
"Sir," said the son of the regicide, "you are hard upon fallen men, upon vanquished enemies, who, if they were guilty of faults – of crimes if you will – did very great and glorious things, giving the first signal for social regeneration over the world."
"It is useless, sir," said the envoy, "to discuss that matter. My convictions are very strong."
"Well, sir, if that be so," replied the outlaw, "let us return to the General Bonaparte, and pray explain to me his new plans with regard to the Spanish possessions in America."
"They are no new plans," observed the envoy; "only the old ones modified to a certain extent."
"Modified in what way?"
"There are two capital points. In the first place he wishes a cordial and frank alliance with the President of the United States, who cordially approves the policy of the French Government, which will, in the end, be to the advantage of America. Then he has given extensive powers to numerous sure and accredited agents, who, though, are not openly known because of the temporary Franco-Spanish alliance. Large sums of money have been provided by means of which to overthrow that species of Chinese wall with which Spain has surrounded its frontiers, which none ever cross and return."
"Sir," said the outlaw, with a smile, "I have crossed them many a time and oft, and yet here I am."
"It is precisely because of that fact that I am here."
"Ah! Ah!" said the outlaw, with a laugh; "After all, despite your denials, you had seen through my incognito."
"Well, it is useless to deny it. I have long known you to be a man of heart and action. I also know that by means of your vast connections no one can more readily help us to revolutionise the colonies. Besides, you are a Frenchman."
"I am of no country," replied the other.
"What, then, do you call yourself?"
"An outlaw," answered the chief, "and king of this island," drily; "an outlaw, and nothing more."
"Well, be it so, sir. Still you are exactly the man I want. I have need, for the execution of my plans, for the carrying out of my projects, of a man who is bound by no locality, by no social consideration. In fact, an outlaw."
The other bowed ironically.
"Now are you disposed to be the man?"
"First," said Tom Mitchell, "let me know what you want of me. I will then give a decisive answer."
"Well, then," replied the envoy, "let us put diplomacy on one side, and speak frankly and openly."
The outlaw leaned back and assumed something like the attitude of a tiger about to spring.
"Sir," he said, with a most singular smile, "I was about to make the very same proposition."
"Very good," replied Monsieur Hebrard; "that shows that we are beginning to understand one another."
The captain bowed, without speaking.
"The Spanish colonies," continued M. Hebrard, "are already beginning to feel the germs of revolutionary fermentation. Some devoted and enterprising men, yourself among others, have gone into the cities and towns of Mexico."
"All this I know; a truce to flattery."
"They have seen the zealous patriots, who are, however, but ill prepared as yet for the revolution we ardently desire."
"Ill prepared indeed," cried Tom Mitchell.
"But overtopping all others is a man who has immense influence with the Indian races. You know him."
"Ah, ah!" exclaimed Tom; "You mean Dolores, the priest."
"I mean no other. He is the only man upon whom we can count. We must enter into serious relations with him."
"For what purpose?" asked the outlaw.
"In order that when the hour comes he may be ready to raise the standard of revolt," cried the other, "and ready to draw the population after him against Spanish despotism."
"Very good, sir. But it is a long way to Dolores, where lives the curé Hidalgo. The road is one of the most dangerous I know. I doubt if any agent, however clever, can reach him. Will you allow me to give you sincere advice?"
"Speak; I am deeply interested."
"My own opinion is that it would be much better to despatch a light vessel, schooner or brig, into the Gulf of Mexico. This vessel could cruise along the coast, and, when opportunity offered, land a confidential agent."
"You are quite right, sir," said the envoy, "I must say this means has been tried with success."
"Well, what then?"
"The secret was betrayed by a traitor; in consequence, the Spanish authorities are always on their guard."
"Hence you conclude – "
"That on reflection, and having experience as a guide, the difficult road you describe is the best."
"Hum!" said the outlaw, and relapsed into silence.
The real meaning, the interesting point, of this conversation, so long, had not been touched upon. The captain knew it well, and kept himself in reserve. M. Hebrard was for some time afraid to enter upon a frank and true explanation.
There was a deep silence; at last the captain determined to fire the train, if he were blown up.
"Then you think I must go by land," he said.
"There is no choice," responded Hebrard.
"The conditions?" remarked Tom.
"One hundred thousand francs, not in notes, but in golden ounces, stamped with the effigy of the King of Spain."
"That is tolerable, for a beginning."
"Then there will be as much more for the negotiations, or, as I see you hesitate, at first one hundred and fifty thousand."
"Why at first?" asked Tom.
"Because your mission will be divided into two distinct parts," replied the envoy, quietly.
"Let us thoroughly understand the first," continued the outlaw; "we will talk of the second presently."
"Another hundred thousand on your return with despatches," continued the diplomatist, warmly.
"Hum!" said Tom; "That makes – "
"Three hundred and fifty thousand francs (£14,000) for only the first part of your mission," said Hebrard.
"It is very liberal. Now for the second mission," said Tom Mitchell, watching the diplomatist with his wary eye.
He knew that the real thing was coming now; he was satisfied of this from the other's uneasy manner.
"Hum!" said M. Hebrard, as if speaking to himself; "Three hundred and fifty thousand francs is a pretty sum."
"Well, for the first part of the mission which you have explained to me I don't say no. It is," he added, "a tough job, that I know. Still, nothing risk, nothing have. Now for the second part."
The diplomatist assumed an air of genial frankness that made the outlaw shudder. He was at once on his guard.
"The Spaniards, as I have said," observed M. Hebrard, jauntily, "are forever on the watch. No one, no matter what his position, is safe on the frontiers. To go in or out is simply impossible."
"Diable!" cried Tom; "What you say is not calculated to give me much confidence or hope."
"Excuse me, monsieur," said Hebrard, "we are playing a frank and open game, I do not desire in any way to conceal the dangers that may await you. I am only speaking in a general kind of way, certain that whatever obstacles occur you will be right."
All this was verbiage; M. Hebrard was evidently only trying some method of putting his real thoughts into words.
The outlaw, who expected what was coming, smiled.
"Unfortunately," said the diplomatist, who did not know what to say, "the real danger is not on the other side."
The outlaw started up.
"You may well be surprised; the danger is here."
"What do you mean?" cried the outlaw.
"I will explain myself, if you will allow me. Of course," said M. Hebrard, "the Spaniards are no more fools than we are."
"I was always of that opinion."
"They have started a countermine!"
"A countermine!" cried Tom. "What do you mean?"
"You will soon see. Knowing something of our designs, they have covered the American frontiers with spies."
"It is certainly very clever," said the outlaw.
"Very clever," said the diplomatist, in a husky voice; "but then, clever as they are, we know all about it, every detail."
"You do not mean to say so?" cried Tom Mitchell.
"Yes. And more than that, we know the chief of the whole gang of spies," added Hebrard. "And much more than that, we know all his secrets, cunning as he is."
"That is something," said Tom; "but now what you want is to catch him."
"Yes," said Hebrard, "that is the very thing; you yourself must see the necessity of catching him before you start."
"I should think so; it is as plain as running water; but," added Tom Mitchell, "it is not very easy to snap up such a rascal in the desert, which simply is as full of such rogues and vagabonds as an anthill is full of ants."
"Don't be uneasy on that point," cried Hebrard; "I shall easily put you on his track."
"All right. Then all we have to do is to catch him?"
"Exactly so," said the other, with a sigh.
"And you will pay for this capture?"
"Very heavily, my excellent friend."
"Oh! Oh! Then you are very anxious to secure him?"
"Yes," continued the other, gloomily; "dead or alive; it matters not. I should say, for information's sake, dead rather than alive."
"I like plain speaking. He is very much in your way?"
"Very much more than I can explain."
"And how much will you pay for this mission?"
"Alive, twenty-five thousand; dead, fifty thousand francs."
"It appears to me you prefer him dead. But never mind, give me the information. His name and address."
"He is a Frenchman, who has taken the name of Oliver. In appearance he is a hunter, a trapper, anything that comes uppermost. For greater safety he has connected himself with an Indian tribe, and is to be found about the Missouri."
"It is a very long way from the Mexican frontiers," observed the outlaw, in a coldly sarcastic voice.
"True. But the fellow is cunning; his safety requires him to be extremely cautious. Do you accept?"
"I accept on one condition," replied the other. "It is fully understood that he is to be dead, mind."
"No matter, so that we have him."
"Well, then, we are agreed on four hundred thousand francs (£16,000)? I shall want half down."
"I have the money in gold in my valises. I will pay it to you this evening," replied the envoy.
"And now that this is settled, you are in no hurry?"
"None whatever."
"Well, I know pretty well where to find the man you are in search of. I must say that, without suspecting the odious part he has been playing, I have on the several occasions we have met him felt the greatest repulsion."
"This is extraordinary."
"Well, you see, on the desert everybody knows everybody. But as I wish to make no mistake, to commit no error in so grave and important a matter, I should like you to be present at his arrest. Besides, it would be more regular."
"Hum!" cried the other, with a look of considerable annoyance; "The idea of further voyage in the desert – "
"Is not pleasant, I know," interrupted Tom; "but that is not necessary. You shall remain quietly here."
"Then I consent. When do you expect to catch him?"
"In less than a week, unless I am very unfortunate."
"Then I can wholly depend on you?" cried Hebrard.
"I swear to you on my honour that it will not be my fault if at the end of the time you are not face to face."
"I thank you in advance," said the envoy.
"There is nothing to be grateful for," replied the outlaw, with an odd expression and smile.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PRISONER
That same day, about nine o'clock in the evening, the outlaw was seated face to face with Captain Pierre Durand at a table covered with dishes, plates, and empty bottles, which testified to the appetite of the two men, and to the rude attack they had made upon everything in order to satisfy it.
The two men were now smoking excellent cigars, while sipping, like true amateurs, some mocha, served in real Japanese cups. Close at hand, in addition, were bottles containing every conceivable kind of liquors and spirits.
They had reached that precise period in the repast so prized by gourmets, when, the mind elevated and the brain excited by succulent food and generous libations, one feels a kind of happy state of being that is simply charming.
For one whole quarter of an hour neither of the two men had spoken or cared to speak.
It was the outlaw who first broke the charm.
"You are aware, my dear captain," he said, "that in half an hour I must leave you and be off."
"Excuse me," cried Pierre Durand, starting, "if I believe a single word of such a mad assertion."
"Yes, I am truly sorry to say, it is the exact fact. Doubtless you know as well as I do, business before all."
"I have not the remotest idea of interfering with your affairs," cried the sea captain, glumly.
"Then what do you mean?"
"That you are not going to leave me in the lurch."
"Still, when I tell you I must go," said the outlaw.
"All I mean is this, that if you go I go," cried Pierre.
"What! A night journey like this?" asked Tom.
"Night journey, day journey, it is all the same to me. I am an old sailor," growled Pierre Durand; "and every kind of locomotion is equally indifferent to me. Besides, I have known you a very long time, haven't I? And I know what sort of trade you carry on," he added.
The outlaw kept his countenance.
"Of course, I shall not be surprised or scandalised at anything I see. All I know is that here I should be bored to death, having nothing to do. It would be a nice little change to join you in one of your filibustering expeditions."
All this was said in a joking kind of way that excluded all idea of giving offence.
"Well," said Tom Mitchell, smiling, "any way, you would find yourself utterly disappointed."
"How is that?"
"I am not going to plunder, but to restore. Of course I don't pretend it is my usual custom," said Tom.
"Very well," cried Pierre; "I think that will be much more funny. I should like to join in the good work."
"But, my friend – " urged the outlaw.
"There is no but about it. I am a Breton, that is to say, as obstinate as several mules," continued Pierre Durand; "and I mean to come, unless, indeed, you tell me that my demand is in reality offensive and intrusive."
"By no means," cried Tom; "come then. Who can resist anyone so obstinate as you are, my friend?"
"You are a delightful fellow. I am ready."
"Not quite; there are conditions; at least, one."
"Pray let me know what it is."
"You must profit by the few minutes that remain to us to disguise yourself, so as to be unrecognisable."
"To what purpose, in a country where nobody knows me?" cried Pierre Durand; "Will you tell me a reason?"
"That is my secret. Will you consent? That is right. Now go there, and you will find all things necessary."
Pierre Durand was about to leave the room, but the outlaw indicated where everything was ready.
"There is another favour I must ask of you."
"Go ahead, nothing surprises me," said the captain, who, with magnificent sang-froid had commenced his work.
"In case chance should bring us face to face with people we know," he said, earnestly, "you will still keep up your incognito, even if you happen to see among these the face of the friend whom you have travelled so far to see."
The captain, who was blacking his beard with soot and fat, having already darkened his eyebrows, gave a start.
"Will he be there?" he asked.
"I do not say so. It is more than probable that he will not be there. Still, I wish to exercise every precaution."
"Hum, still it appears very hard."
"Still, do you consent? Yes or no."
"I repeat what you just said. I suppose I must," said Pierre; "and as I see you are in earnest, I promise, on my honour."
"Enough; then make haste."
After rendering his features and countenance utterly unrecognisable, the captain threw off his outer clothes, and assumed the costume of a planter of the frontier.
"What languages do you speak?" asked Tom.
"Nearly all civilised ones as easily as I do French," replied Durand; "but, above all, English and Spanish."
"Very good," continued Tom; "then during our excursion I shall always call you Don José Remero."
"Don José Remero be it."
"You must recollect that you are a captain in the Spanish navy, fled from home after a fatal duel."
"All right," grinned Pierre.
"Do not forget to take weapons. I can strongly recommend this tison. It is a perfect and choice rapier," said Tom; "have this long and pointed knife in your right boot. You may want it when you least expect. Do you ride?"
"Like a centaur," laughed the Frenchman.
"I am very glad to hear it; and now secure this carbine and this pair of pistols," continued Tom.
"Why, I shall look like an arsenal."
"My friend, it is the custom of the country," said Tom; "no one thinks of travelling in any other way."
"One does at Rome as Rome does. I'm your man," cried Pierre, laughing; "what do you think of me?"
"Unrecognisable. I should not know you anywhere. You are clever; even your accent is changed."
"That is always the first thing to be thought of," said Pierre Durand; "and now what is the nature of the restitution?"
"We are going," replied the outlaw, with a smile, "to restore a young girl to her friends and relatives."
"A young girl?" cried Durand.
"Yes – a most charming and interesting maiden, whom I captured the other day. I can no longer resist her tender sorrow."
"Bah!" said the young sailor, with a grin.
"I swear to you, upon my honour," cried the outlaw, warmly, "that she has been treated with the most profound respect and even tenderness."
"Spoken like an honest man," said the captain, warmly. "But may I ask with what object you took her away?"
"I had a motive, which I fear me exists no longer. I even fear," he said, gloomily, "I have entered upon a bad speculation. But it is useless to discuss the matter anymore. Soon there shall be no mysteries for you. Be seated again."
"Why?" asked the captain, puzzled at all these mysteries.
"She comes, and it is rather important I should say a few words to her before we start on our journey."
"I am your humble servant to command."
Tom Mitchell struck a gong, and Camotte appeared.
"Have my orders been executed?" asked the outlaw.
"Yes, captain. The stranger is watched carefully, and yet without creating suspicion," replied the lieutenant.
"Where is he now?"
"In his own room."
"If tomorrow he asks after me," said Tom Mitchell, "you will give him the answer already agreed on."
"Yes, captain."
"What about the detachments?"
"Those have started within the hour, I shall start with the last as soon as the moon rises," replied Camotte.
"Remember," said Tom, thoughtfully, "that tomorrow morning at sunrise, if not before, you must be back."
"Be easy as to that, captain," said the other, significantly; "I shall not leave the island without a chief just now."
"Humph!" observed the captain, suspiciously, "Is there anything fresh in the air?"
"Nothing in appearance, much in reality."
"You can speak out here," said Tom Mitchell; "if you have anything to say, say it without hesitation."
"About an hour ago, when I was going my round," said the matter-of-fact and faithful Camotte, "I met that fellow Versenca at the water's edge; he was wet through, and had evidently been swimming. When he saw me he was utterly confounded, and then when I questioned him as to his conduct he gave me a lot of silly reasons a child of five would have seen through."
The captain reflected with a dark frown.
"Redouble your vigilance, my good Camotte," he said at last. "On the first suspicion arrest him until I come back."
"For greater safety, captain," replied Camotte, "I shall take him with me tonight, I can watch him."
"Mind he does not give you the slip. A traitor would be dangerous just now. He is as cunning as an opossum."
"I know it, but two can play at the same game."
"Good. I leave it to you. Have Black Athol and Goliath saddled for us, and Miss Lara for the prisoner, if safe."
"She is quite a lady's horse – an ambler. She will quite suit her rider," replied Camotte.
"Mind you," continued Tom, "let the three be harnessed for war – victuals, holsters, ammunition, and pistols."
"As a matter of course. When Black Athol and Goliath go out, I know you are bent on mischief. What absence?"
"Three days at most," replied the captain; "and during that time never leave the island."
"And you go alone?" asked Camotte, anxiously.
"With the gentleman, as I have already said."
"I think you should take Tête de Plume," said Camotte.
"Will you tell me why?" asked the captain, smiling.
"No one ever knows on an expedition what may happen," drily replied the lieutenant, "and two are better than one."
"But I have told you, we are two already."
"Very good," he continued, "but you would be three."
"I tell you what it is, Camotte," said the captain, laughing, "you do just as you like with me. Let him come."
"I thank you heartily," cried the delighted lieutenant.
"Above all, whatever happens, keep my absence a secret," said Tom Mitchell; "that is above all essential."
"Your orders shall be obeyed in all things."
"And now bring in the prisoner," continued Tom. "By the way, have you said anything to her?"
"Captain, you know I am no babbler," observed Camotte.
"Very true," said Tom, and then turning to Pierre, he added, laughing, "that fellow does not put too much confidence in me."
"His manner is strange. Perhaps he distrusts me."
"No; Camotte is a bulldog for fidelity and discretion; but, like bulldogs, he is both suspicious and jealous," replied Tom.
"I bear him no malice for his jealousy," said Pierre; "besides, I myself always like those kind of men."
"Yes, they are indeed very precious," continued Tom; "unfortunately, you have to give way to them a little."
"Well, when it is from pure devotion, nothing can be said."
At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered the room, effectually checking the conversation.
This young girl was Angela, or Evening Dew, whichever it may please the reader to call her.
She gave a graceful curtsy, and then remained with downcast eyes before the outlaw chief.
The two men rose from their seats and bowed respectfully.
"My sister is welcome," said the outlaw, smiling, and speaking in the Indian tongue; "be seated."
"Evening Dew is a slave, and presumes not to sit down in the presence of her master," responded the young girl, in a voice as melodious as the song of a bird, but the tone of which was firm and distinct. "I have said."
Evening Dew was a delicious child of seventeen at most, in whom the two races, white and red, of both which she was the issue, seemed to have vied which should produce the most wondrous chef d'oeuvre.
Her elegant and slight form, slightly bent forward with that serpentine undulation which belongs to American women, her long hair, black as the raven's wing, fell almost to her feet, and when loosened, might have served her as a cloak. Her complexion had the golden tint of the daughters of the sun; her great blue and dreamy eyes were fringed by long velvet lashes; her mouth, revealing her vermilion lips, and a row of dazzling white teeth, gave to her physiognomy that rare expression scarcely ever found except in some virgin of Titian.
The sailor was dazzled at the really marvellous beauty of the young girl. He had no idea that the whole continent of America could have produced such a fairy.
The captain smiled at her reply.
"Evening Dew has no master here. She is with friends who will protect her," he said, heartily.
"Friends!" she cried, clasping her hands together, while the pearly tears went down her cheeks; "Is it possible?"
"I swear to you, young girl," he continued, "that what I say is true. I have sent for you to apologise for what has happened, to demand forgiveness for your cruel abduction."