The explanation is simply that there has been a change of owners, another celebrated "sport" taking up the abandoned bank and opening it anew. With a few exceptions the customers are the same, their number not sensibly diminished. Most of the old players have returned to it, while the places of those who have defected, and gone off to other gambling resorts, are filled by fresh arrivals.

A small party of gentlemen, who think they have had play enough for that night, have left the "El Dorado" for good. Among these are the English officers, whose visit proved so prejudicial to the interests of the place.

De Lara, too, and Calderon, with other confederates, have forsaken the saloon. But whither gone no one knows, or seems to care; for the fortunes of fallen men soon cease to interest those who are themselves madly struggling to mount up.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A SUPPER CARTE-BLANCHE.

On parting from the "El Dorado," Crozier and Cadwallader do not go directly aboard the Crusader. They know that their boat will be awaiting them at the place appointed. But the appointment is for a later hour; and as the breaking of the Monte bank, with the incidents attendant, occupied but a short while, there will be time for them to see a little more of San Francisco life. They have fallen in with several other young officers, naval like themselves, though not of their own ship, nor yet their own navy, or nation, but belonging to one cognate and kindred—Americans. Through the freemasonry of their common profession, with these they have fraternised, and it is agreed they shall all sup together. Crozier has invited the Americans to a repast the most recherche, as the costliest, that can be obtained at the grandest hotel in San Francisco, the Parker House. He adds humorously, that he is able to stand the treat. And well he may; since, besides the English money with which he entered the "El Dorado," he has brought thousands of dollars out of it, and would have brought more had all the ivory cheques been honoured. As it is, his pockets are filled with notes and gold; as also those of Cadwallader, who helps him to carry the shining stuff. Part of the heavy metal he has been able to change into the more portable form of bank-notes. Yet the two are still heavily weighted—"laden like hucksters' donkeys!" jokingly remarks Cadwallader, as they proceed towards the Parker.

At the hotel a private room is engaged; and, according to promise, Crozier bespeaks a repast of the most sumptuous kind, with carte-blanche for the best wines—champagne at three guineas a bottle, hock the same, and South-side Madeira still more. What difference to him?

The supper ordered in the double-quick soon makes its appearance. Sooner in San Francisco than in any other city in the world; in better style, too, and better worth the money; for the Golden City excels in the science of gastronomy. Even then, amidst her canvas sheds, and weather-boarded houses, could be obtained dishes of every kind known to Christendom, or Pagandom: the cuisine of France, Spain, and Italy; the roast beef of Old England, as the pork and beans of the New; the gumbo of Guinea, and sauerkraut of Germany, side by side with the swallow's-nest soup and sea-slugs of China. Had Lucullus but lived in these days, he would have forsaken the banks of the Tiber, and made California his home.

The repast furnished by the Parker House, however splendid, has to be speedily despatched; for unfortunately time forbids the leisurely enjoyment of the viands, to a certain extent marring the pleasure of the occasion. All the officers, American as English, have to be on their respective ships at the stroke of twelve.

Reluctantly breaking up their hilarious company, they prepare to depart.

They have forsaken the supper-room, and passed on to the outer saloon of the hotel; like all such, furnished with a drinking-bar.

Before separating, and while buttoning up against the chill night-air, Crozier calls out:

"Come, gentlemen; one more glass! The stirrup-cup!"

In San Francisco this is always the wind up to a night of revelry. No matter how much wine has been quaffed, the carousal is not deemed complete without a last "valedictory" drink taken standing at the bar.

Giving way to the Californian custom, the officers range themselves along the marble slab; bending over which, the polite bar-keeper asks:

"What is it to be, gentlemen?"

There is a moment of hesitation, the gentlemen—already well wined— scarce knowing what to call for. Crozier cuts the Gordian knot by proposing:

"A round of punches a la Romaine!"

Universal assent to this delectable drink; as all know just the thing for a night-cap.

Soon the cooling beverage, compounded with snow from the Sierra Nevada, appears upon the counter, in huge glasses, piled high with the sparkling crystals; a spoon surmounting each—for punch a la Romaine is not to be drunk, but eaten.

Shovelling it down in haste, adieus are exchanged, with a hearty shake of hands. Then the American officers go off, leaving Crozier and Cadwallader in the saloon; these only staying to settle the account.

While standing by the bar, waiting for it to be brought, they cast a glance around the room. At first careless, it soon becomes concentrated on a group seen at some distance off, near one of the doors leading out, of which there are several. There are also several other groups; for the saloon is of large dimensions, besides being the most popular place of resort in San Francisco. And for San Francisco the hour is not yet late. Along the line of the drinking-bar, and over the white-sanded floor, are some scores of people of all qualities and kinds, in almost every variety of costume; though they who compose the party that has attracted the attention of the English officers show nothing particular—that is, to the eye of one unacquainted with them. There are four of them, two wearing broadcloth cloaks, the other two having their shoulders shrouded under serapes. Nothing in all that. The night is cold, indeed wet, and they are close to the door, to all appearance intending soon to step out. They have only paused to exchange a parting word, as if they designed to separate before issuing into the street.

Though the spot where they stand is in shadow—a folding screen separating it from the rest of the saloon—and it is not easy to get sight of their faces—the difficulty increased by broad-brimmed hats set slouchingly on their heads, with their cloaks and serapes drawn up around their throats—Crozier and Cadwallader have not only seen, but recognised them. A glance at their countenances, caught before the muffling was made, enabled the young officers to identify three of them as De Lara, Calderon, and the ci-devant croupier of the Monte bank. The fourth, whose face they have also seen, is a personage not known to them; but, judging by his features, a suitable associate for the other three.

Soon as catching sight of them, which he is the first to do, Crozier whispers to his companion:

"See, Will! Look yonder! Our friends from the 'El Dorado!'"

"By Jove! them, sure enough. Do you think they've been following us?"

"I shouldn't wonder. I was only surprised they didn't do something, when they had us in their gambling den. After the heavy draw I made on Mr Lara's bank, I expected no less than that he'd try to renew his acquaintance with me; all the more from his having been so free of it in the morning. Instead, he and his friend seemed to studiously avoid coming near us—not even casting a look in our direction. That rather puzzled me."

"It needn't. After what you gave him, I should think he'll feel shy of another encounter."

"No; that's not it. Blackleg though the fellow be, he's got game in him. He gave proof of it in the 'El Dorado,' defying, and backing everybody out. It was an exhibition of real courage, Will; and, to tell the truth, I couldn't help admiring it—can't now. When I saw him presiding over the gambling table, and dealing out the cards, I at once made up my mind that it would never do to meet him—even if he challenged me. Now, I've decided differently; and if he call me out, I'll give him a chance to recover a little of his lost reputation. I will, upon my honour."

"But why should you? A 'sport,' a professional gambler! The thing would be simply ridiculous."

"Nothing of the kind—not here in California. On the contrary, I should cut a more ridiculous figure by refusing him satisfaction. It remains to be seen whether he'll seek it according to the correct code."

"That he won't; at least, I don't think he will. From the way that lot have got their heads together, it looks as if they meant mischief, now. They may have been watching their opportunity—to get us two alone. What a pity we didn't see them before our friends went off! They're good fellows, those Yankee officers, and would have stood by us."

"No doubt they would. But it's too late now. They're beyond hailing distance, and we must take care of ourselves. Get your dirk ready, Will, and have your hand close to the butt of that shooting-iron, you took from Mr De Lara."

"I have it that way. Never fear. Wouldn't it be a good joke if I have to give the fellow a pill out of his own pistol?"

"No joking matter to us, if they're meditating an attack. Though we disarmed him in the morning, he'll be freshly provided, and with weapons in plenty. I'll warrant each of the four has a battery concealed under his cloak. They appear as if concocting some scheme—which we'll soon know all about—likely before leaving the house. Certainly, they're up to something."

"Four hundred and ninety dollars, gentlemen!"

The financial statement is made by the office clerk presenting the bill.

"There!" cries Crozier, flinging down a five hundred dollar bill. "Let that settle it. You can keep the change for yourself."

"Thank ye," dryly responds the Californian dispenser of drinks, taking the ten dollar tip with less show of gratitude than a London waiter would give for a fourpenny piece—little as that may be.

Turning to take departure, the young officers again look across the saloon, to learn how the hostile party has disposed itself. To their surprise, the gamblers are gone; having disappeared while the account was being paid.

"I don't like the look of it," says Crozier, in a whisper. "Less now than ever. No doubt we'll find them outside. Well; we can't stay here all night. If they attack us, we must do our best. Take a firm grip of your pistol, with your finger close to the trigger; and if any of them shows sign of shooting, see that you fire first. Follow me; and keep close!"

On the instant of delivering these injunctions, he starts towards the door, Cadwallader following as directed.

Both step out, and for a short while stand gazing interrogatively around them. People they see in numbers, some lounging by the hotel porch, others passing along the street. But none in cloaks or serapes. The gamblers must have gone clear away.

"After all, we may have been wronging them," remarks Urozier, as in his nature, giving way to a generous impulse. "I can hardly think that a fellow who's shown such courage would play the assassin. Maybe they were but putting their heads together about challenging us? If that's it, we may expect to hear from them in the morning. It looks all right. Anyhow, we can't stay dallying here. If we're not aboard by eight bells, old Bracebridge 'll masthead us. Let's heave along, my hearty!"

So saying, he leads off, Cadwallader close on his quarter—both a little unsteady in their steps, partly from being loaded with the spoils of "El Dorado," and partly from the effects of the Parker House wines, and punches a la Romaine.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

HARRY BLEW HOMELESS.

While the exciting scene described as taking place in the saloon "El Dorado" was at its height, Harry Blew went past the door. Could the sailor have seen through walls, he would have entered the Hell. The sight of His former officers would have attracted him inside; there to remain, for more reasons than one.

Of one he had already thought. Conjecturing that the young gentleman might be going on a bit of spree, and knowing the dangers of such in San Francisco, it had occurred to him to accompany, or keep close after them—in order that he might be at hand, should they come into collision with any of the roughs and rowdies thick upon the street. Unfortunately, this idea, like that of asking them for a cash loan, had come too late; and they were out of sight ere he could take any steps towards its execution. A glance into the gambling-saloon would have brought both opportunities back again; and, instead of continuing to wander hungry through the streets, he would have had a splendid supper, and after it a bed, either in some respectable hostelry, or his old bunk aboard the Crusader.

It was not to be. While passing the "El Dorado," he could know nothing of the friends that were so near; and thus unconscious, he leaves the glittering saloon behind, and a half-score others lighted with like brilliancy.

For a while longer he saunters slowly about, in the hope of yet encountering the officers. Several times he sees men in uniform, and makes after them, only to find they are not English.

At length giving it up, he quickens his pace, and strikes for the office of Silvestre, which he knows to be in the street fronting the water.

As San Francisco is not like an old seaport, where house-room is cheap and abundant, but every foot of roof-shelter utilised by day as by night, there is a chance the office may still be open. In all probability, the shipping-agent sleeps by the side of his ledger; or, if not, likely enough one of his clerks. In which case he, Harry Blew, may be allowed to lie along the floor, or get a shake-down in some adjoining shed. He would be but too glad to stretch himself on an old sack, a naked bench, or, for that matter, sit upright in a chair. For he is now fairly fagged out perambulating the unpaved streets of that inhospitable town.

Tacking from corner to corner, now and then hitching up his trousers, to give freer play to his feet, he at length comes out upon the street which fronts upon the bay. In his week's cruising about the town he has acquired some knowledge of its topography, and knows well enough where he is; but not the office of the shipping-agent. It, therefore, takes him a considerable time to find it. Along the water's edge the houses are irregularly placed, and numbered with like irregularity. Besides, there is scarce any light; the night has become dark, with a sky densely clouded, and the street-lamps burning whale-oil are dim, and at long distances apart. It is with difficulty he can make out the figures upon the doors. However, he is at length successful, and deciphers on one the number he is in search of—as also the name "Silvestre," painted on a piece of tin attached to to the side-post, A survey of the house— indeed, a single glance at it—convinces him he has come thither to no purpose. It is a small wooden structure, not much bigger than a sentry-box, evidently only an office, with no capability of conversion to a bed-chamber. Still it has room enough to admit of a man's lying at full length along its floor; and, as already said, he would be glad of so disposing himself for the night. There may be some one inside, though the one window—in size corresponding to the shanty itself—looks black and forbidding.

With no very sanguine hope, he lays hold of the door-handle, and gives it a twist. Locked, as he might have expected!

The test not satisfying him, he knocks. At first timidly; then a little bolder and louder; finally, giving a good round rap with his knuckles— hard as horn. At the same time he hails sailor-fashion:

"Ahoy, there; be there any one within?"

This in English; but, remembering that the ship-agent is a Spaniard, he follows his first hail with another in the Spanish tongue, adding the usual formulary:

"Abre la puerta!"

Neither to question, nor demand is there any response. Only the echo of his own voice reverberated along the line of houses, and dying away in the distance, as it mingles with the sough of the sea.

No use speaking, or knocking again. Undoubtedly, Silvestre's office is closed for the night; and his clerks, if there be any, have their sleeping-quarters elsewhere.

Forced to this conclusion, though sadly dissatisfied with it, the ex-man-o'-war's man turns away from the door, and once more goes cruising along the streets. But now, having no definite point to steer for, he makes short tacks and turns, like a ship sailing under an unfavourable wind—or as one disregarding the guidance of the compass, without steersman at the wheel.

After beating about for nearly another hour, he discovers himself contiguous to the water's edge. His instincts have conducted him thither—as the seal, after a short inland excursion, finds its way back to the beach. Ah! if he could only swim like a seal!

This thought occurs to him as he stands looking over the sea in the direction of the Crusader. Were it possible to reach the frigate, all his troubles would soon be forgotten in the cheerful companionship of his old chums of the forepeak.

It can't be. The man-of-war is anchored more than two miles off. Strong swimmer though he knows himself, it is too far. Besides, a fog has suddenly sprung up, overspreading the bay, so that the frigate is hidden from his sight. Even ships lying close in shore can be but faintly discerned through its film, and only the larger spars; the smaller ones, with the rigging-ropes, looking like the threads of a spider's web.

Downhearted, almost despairing, Harry Blew halts upon the beach. What is he to do? Lie down on the sand, and there go to sleep? There are times when on the shores of San Francisco Bay this would not be much of a hardship. But now, it is the season of winter, when the Pacific current, coming from latitudes farther north, rolls in through the Golden Gate, bringing with it fogs that spread themselves over the great estuary inside. Although not frosty, these are cold enough to be uncomfortable, and the haze now is accompanied by a chill drizzling rain.

Standing under it, Harry Blew feels he is fast getting wet. If he do not obtain shelter, he will soon be soaked to the skin.

Looking inquiringly around, his eye rests upon a boat, which lies bottom upward on the beach, appearing through the thick rain like the carapace of a gigantic turtle. It is an old ship's launch that has bilged, and either been abandoned as useless, or upturned to receive repairs. No matter what its history, it offers the hospitality so scurvily refused him at the "Sailor's Home." If it cannot give him supper, or bed, it will be some protection against the rain that has now commenced coming down in big clouting drops.

This deciding him, he creeps under the capsized launch, and lays himself at full length along the shingle.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

IN DANGEROUS PROXIMITY.

The spot upon which the ex-man-o'-war's man has stretched himself is soft as a feather-bed. Still he does not fall asleep. The rain, filtering through the sand, soon finds its way under the boat; and, saturating his couch, makes it uncomfortable. This, with the cold night-air, keeps him awake.

He lies listening to the sough of the sea, and the big drops pattering upon the planks above.

Not long before other sounds salute his ear, distinguishable as human voices—men engaged in conversation.

As he continues to listen, the voices grow louder, those who converse evidently drawing nearer.

In a few seconds they are by the boat's side, where they come to a stand. But though they have paused in their steps, they continue to talk in excited, earnest tones. And so loud, that he can hear every word they say; though the speakers are invisible to him. The capsized boat is not so flush with the sand as to prevent him from seeing the lower part of their legs, from the knees downward. Of these there are four pairs, two of them in trousers of the ordinary kind; the other two in calzoneras of velveteen, bordered at the bottoms with black stamped leather. But, that all four men are Californians, or Spaniards, he can tell by the language in which they are conversing—Spanish. A lucky chance that he understands something of this—if not for himself, for the friends who are dear to him.

The first intelligible speech that reaches his ear is an interrogatory:

"You're sure, Calderon, they'll come this way?"

"Quite sure, De Lara. When I stood by them at the hotel-bar, I heard the younger of the two tell one of the American officers that their boat was to meet them at the wooden muello—the new pier, as you know. To reach that they must pass by here; there's no other way. And it can't be long before they make appearance. They were leaving the hotel at the time we did, and where else should they go?"

"Not knowing,"—this from the voice of a third individual. "They may stay to take another copita, or half-a-dozen. These Inglese can drink like fish, and don't seem to feel it."

"The more they drink the better for us," remarks a fourth. "Our work will be the easier."

"It may not be so easy, Don Manuel," puts in De Lara. "Young as they are, they're very devils both. Besides, they're well armed, and will battle like grizzly bears. I tell you, camarados, we'll have work to do before we get back our money."

"But do you intend killing them, De Lara?" asks he who has been called Calderon.

"Of course. We must, for our own sakes. 'Twould be madness not, even if we could get the money without it. The older, Crozier, is enormously rich, I've heard; could afford to buy up all the law there is in San Francisco. If we let them escape, he'd have the police after us like hounds upon a trail. Even if they shouldn't recognise us now, they'd be sure to suspect who it was, and make the place too hot to hold us. Caspita! It's not a question of choice, but a thing of necessity. We must kill them!"

Harry Blew hears the cold-blooded determination, comprehending it in all its terrible significance. It tells him the young officers are still in the town, and that these four men are about to waylay, rob, and murder them. What they mean by "getting back their money" is the only thing he does not comprehend. It is made clear as the conversation continues:

"I'm sure there's nothing unfair in taking back our own. I, Frank Lara, say so. It was they who brought about the breaking of our bank, which was done in a mean, dastardly way. The Englishman had the luck, and all the others of his kind went with him. But for that we could have held out. It's no use our whining about it. We've lost, and must make good our losses best way we can. We can't, and be safe ourselves, if we let these gringos go."

"Chingara! we'll stop their breath, and let there be no more words about it."

The merciless verdict is in the voice of Don Manuel.

"You're all agreed, then?" asks De Lara.

"Si, si, si!" is the simultaneous answer of assent, Calderon alone seeming to give it with reluctance; though he hesitates from timidity, not mercy.

Harry Blew now knows all. The officers have been gaming, have won money, and the four fellows who talk so coolly of killing them are the chief gambler and his confederates.

What is he to do? How can he save the doomed men. Both are armed; Crozier has his sword, Cadwallader his dirk. Besides, the midshipman has a pistol, as he saw while they were talking to him at the Sailor's Home. But then they are to be taken unawares—shot, or struck down, in the dark, without a chance of seeing the hand that strikes them! Even if warned and ready, it would be two against four. And he is himself altogether unarmed; for his jack-knife is gone—hypothecated to pay for his last jorum of grog! And the young officers have been drinking freely, as he gathers from what the ruffians say. They may be inebriated, or enough so to put them off their guard. Who would be expecting assassination? Who ever is, save a Mexican himself? Altogether unlikely that they should be thinking of such a thing. On the contrary, disregarding danger, they will come carelessly on, to fall like ripe corn before the sickle of the reaper.

The thought of such a fate for his friends fills the sailor with keenest apprehension; and again he asks himself how it is to be averted.

The four conspirators are not more than as many feet from the boat. By stretching out his hands he could grip them by the ankles, without altering his recumbent attitude one inch. And by doing this, he might give the guilty plotters such a scare as would cause them to retreat, and so baffle their design.

The thought comes before his mind, but is instantly abandoned. The fellows are not of the stuff to be frightened at shadows. By their talk, at least two are desperadoes, and to make known his presence would be only to add another victim to those already doomed to death.

But what is he to do? For the third time he asks himself this question, still unable to answer it.

While still painfully cogitating, his brain labouring to grasp some feasible plan of defence against the threatened danger, he is warned of a change. Some words spoken tell of it. It is De Lara who speaks them.

"By the way, camarados, we're not in a good position here. They may sight us too soon. To make things sure, we must drop on them before they can draw their weapons. Else some of us may get dropped ourselves."

"Where could we be better? I don't see. The shadow of this old boat favours us."

"Why not crawl under it?" asks Calderon. "There Argus himself couldn't see us."

Harry Blew's heart beats at the double-quick. His time seems come, and he already fancies four pistols to his head, or the same number of poniards pointed at his ribs.

It is a moment of vivid anxiety—a crisis dread, terrible, almost agonising.

Fortunately it is not of long duration, ending almost on the instant. He is relieved at hearing one of them say:

"No; that won't do. We'd have trouble in scrambling out again. While about it they'd see or hear us, and take to their heels. You must remember, it's but a step to where their boat will be waiting them, with some eight or ten of those big British tars in it. If they got there before we overtook them, the tables would be turned on us."

"You're right, Don Manuel," rejoins De Lara; "it won't do to go under the boat, and there's no need for us to stay by it. Mira! yonder's a better place—by that wall. In its shadow no one can see us, and the gringos must pass within twenty feet of it. It's the very spot for our purpose. Have with me!"

No one objecting, the four separate from the side of the boat and glide silently as spectres across the strip of sandy beach, their forms gradually growing indistinct in the fog, at length altogether disappearing beneath the sombre shadow of the wall.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

CRUSADERS, TO THE RESCUE!

"What am I to do!"

It is the ex-man-o'-war's man, still lying under the launch, who thus interrogates himself. He has put the question for the fourth time that night, and now as emphatically as ever, but less despairingly.

True, the conspiring assassins have only stepped aside to a lurking place from which they may more conveniently pounce upon their quarry, and be surer of striking it. But their changed position has left him free to change his; which he at once determines upon doing. Their talk has told him where the man-of-war's boat will be awaiting to take the officers back to their ship. He knows the new wharf referred to, the very stair at which the Crusaders have been accustomed to bring to.

It may be the cutter with her full crew of ten—or it may be but the gig. No matter which. There cannot be fewer than two oarsmen, and these will be sufficient. A brace of British tars, with himself to make three, and the officers to tot up five—that will be more than a match for four Spanish Californians. Four times four, thinks Harry Blew, even though the sailors, like himself, be unarmed, or with nothing but their knives and boat-hooks.

He has no fear, if he can but bring it to an encounter of this kind. The question is, can he do so? And first, can he creep out from under the launch, and steal away unobserved?

A glance of scrutiny towards the spot where the assassins have placed themselves in ambuscade, satisfies him that he can. The fog favours him. Through it he cannot see them; and should be himself equally invisible.

Another circumstance will be in his favour: on the soft, sandy beach his footsteps will make but slight noise: not enough to be heard above the hoarse continuous surging of the surf.

All this passes in a moment, and he has made up his mind to start; but hesitates from a new apprehension. Will he be in time? The stair at which the boat should lie is not over a quarter of a mile off, and will take but a few minutes to reach it. Even if he succeed in eluding the vigilance of the ambushed villains, will it be possible for him to get to the pier, communicate with the boat's crew, and bring them back, before the officers reach the place of ambush?

To all this the answer is doubtful, and the doubt appals him. In his absence, the young gentlemen may arrive at the fatal spot. He may return to find their bodies lying lifeless along the sand, their pockets rifled, their murderers gone!

The thought holds him irresolute, doubting what course to take. Should he remain till they are heard approaching, then rush out, give them such warning as he may, throw himself by their side, and do his best to defend them? Unarmed, this would not be much. Against pistols and poniards he would scarce count as a combatant. It might but end in all three being slaughtered together! But there is also the danger of his being discovered in his attempt to slip away from his place of concealment. He may be followed, and overtaken; though he has little fear of this. Pursued he may be, but not overtaken. Despite his sea-legs, he knows himself a swift runner. Were he assured of a fair start, he can hold his distance against anything Spanish or Californian. In five minutes he might reach the pier—in five more be back. If he find the Crusaders there, a word will warn them. In all it would take about ten minutes. But, meanwhile, Crozier and Cadwallader may get upon the ground, and one minute—half a minute—after all would be over.

A terrible struggle agitates the breast of the man-o'-war's man; in his thoughts is conflict agonising. On either side are pros and cons, requiring calm deliberation; and there is no time to deliberate. He must act.

But one more second spends he in consideration. He has confidence in the young officers. Both are brave as lions, and if attacked, will make a tough fight of it. Crozier has also caution, on which dependence may be placed; and at such a time of night he will not be going unguardedly. The strife, though unequal, might last long enough for him, Harry Blew, to bring the Crusaders—at least near enough to cry out—and cheer their officers with the hope of help at hand.

All this flits through Harry Blew's brain in a tenth part of the time it takes to tell it. And having resolved how to act, he hastens to carry out his resolution—to proceed in quest of the boat's crew.

Sprawling like a lizard from beneath the launch, he glides off silently along the strand. At first, with slow, cautious steps, and crouchingly, but soon erect, in a rapid run, as if for the saving of his life; for it is to save the lives of others, almost dear as his own.

The five minutes are not up, when his footsteps patter along the planking of the hollow wooden wharf; and in ten seconds after, he stands at the head of the sea-stairway, looking down.

Below is a boat with men in it—half-a-score of them—seated on the thwarts, some lolling over against the gunwales asleep. At a glance he can tell them to be Crusaders.

His hail startles them into activity; one and all recognising the voice of their old shipmate.

"Quick!" he cries; "quick, mates! This way, and along with me! Don't stay to ask questions. Enough for you to know that the lives of your officers are in danger."

It proves enough. The tars don't wait for a word more; but spring from their recumbent attitude, and out of the boat.

Rushing up the pier steps, they cluster around their comrade. They have not needed instructions to arm themselves. Harry's speech, with its tone, told of some shore hostility, and they have instinctively made ready to meet it; each laying hold of the weapon nearest to his hand; some a knife, some an oar, others a boat-hook.

"Heave with me, lads!" cries Harry; and they "heave"—at his heels— rushing after, as if to extinguish a fire in the forecastle.

Soon they are coursing along the strand, towards the upturned boat, silently, and without asking explanation. If they did, they could not get it; for their leader is panting, breathless, almost unable to utter a word. But five issue from his throat, jerked out disjointedly, and in hoarse utterance. They are:

"Crozier—Cadwallader—waylaid—robbers—murderers!"

Enough to spur the Crusaders to their best speed, if not already at it. But they are; every man of them straining his strength to the utmost.

As they rush on, cleaving the thick fog, Harry at their head listens intently. As yet he can distinguish no sound to alarm him; only the monotonous swashing of the sea, and the murmur of distant voices in the streets of the town. But no cries—no shouts, nor shots; nothing to tell of deadly strife.

"Thank the Lord!" says the brave sailor, half speaking to himself; "we'll be in time to save them."

The words have scarce passed from his lips, when he comes in sight of the capsized launch; and almost simultaneously sees two figures upon the beach beyond. They are of human shape, but through the fog looking grand as giants.

He is not beguiled by the deception; he knows it to be the two officers, their forms magnified by the mist. No others are likely to be coming that way; for he can see they are approaching; and, as can be told by their careless, swaggering gait, unsuspicious of danger, little dreaming of an ambuscade, that in ten seconds more may deprive them of existence! To him, hurrying to avert this catastrophe, it is a moment of intense apprehension—of dread chilling fear. He sees them almost up to the place where the assassins should spring out upon them. In another instant he may hear the cracking of pistols, and see flashes through the fogs. Expecting it even before he can speak, he nevertheless calls out:

"Avast there, Mr Crozier! We're Crusaders. Stop where you are. Another step, and you'll be shot at. There's four men under that wall waiting to murder ye. D'ye know the names, Calderon and Lara? It's them!"

At the first words, the young officers—for it is they—instantly come to a stand. The more promptly from being prepared to expect an attack, but without the warning. Well-timed it is; and they have not stopped a moment too soon.

Simultaneous with the sailor's last word, the sombre space under the wall is lit up by four flashes, followed by the report of as many pistols, while the "tzip-tzip" of bullets, like hornets hurtle pass their ears, leaving no doubt as to who has been fired at.

Fired at, and fortunately missed; for neither feels hurt nor hit!

But the danger is not yet over. Quick following the first comes a second volley, and again with like result. Bad marksmen are they who design doing murder.

It is the last round of shots. In all likelihood, the pistols of the assassins are double-barrelled, and both barrels have been discharged. Before they can reload them, Harry Blew, with his Crusaders, has come up, and it is too late for De Lara and his confederates to use the steel.

Crozier and Cadwallader bound forward; and placing themselves at the head of the boat's crew, advance toward the shadowed spot. They go with a rush, resolved on coming to close quarters with their dastardly assailants, and bringing the affair to a speedy termination.

But it is over already, to their surprise, as also chagrin. On reaching the wall, they find nothing there save stones and timber! The dark space for an instant illuminated by the pistol-flashes, has resumed its grim obscurity. The assassins have got away, escaping the chastisement they would surely have received had they stood their ground.

Some figures are seen in the distance, scuttling along a narrow lane. Cadwallader brings his pistol to bear on them, his finger upon the trigger. But it may not be they; and stayed by the uncertainty, he refrains from firing.

"Let them go!" counsels Crozier. "'Twould be no use looking for them now. Their crime will keep till morning; and since we know their names, it'll be strange if we can't find them; though not so strange if we should fail to get them punished. But that they shall be, if there's a semblance of law to be found in San Francisco. Now, thanks, my brave Crusaders! And there's a hundred pound note to be divided among you. Small reward for the saving of two lives, with a large sum of money. Certainly, had you not turned up so opportunely—But, Harry, how come you to be here? Never mind now! Let us get on board! and you, Blew, must go with us. It'll do you no harm to spend one more night on your old ship. There you can tell me all."

Harry joyfully complies with a requisition so much to his mind; and, instead of tossing discontentedly on a couch of wet sand, he that night sleeps soundly in his old bunk in the frigate's forepeak.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A NEGLECTED DWELLING.

A Country-House some ten miles from San Francisco, in a south-westerly direction. It stands inland about half-way between the Bay and the Pacific shore, among the Coast Range hills.

Though a structure of mud-brick—the sort made by the Israelites in Egypt—and with no pretension to architectural style, it is, in Californian parlance, a hacienda. For it is the headquarters of a grazing estate; but not one of the first-class, either in stock or appointments. In these respects, it was once better off than now; since now it is less than second, showing signs of decay everywhere, but nowhere so much as in the dwelling itself, and the enclosures around. Its walls are weather-washed, here and there cracked and crumbling; the doors have had no paint for years, and opening or shutting, creak upon hinges thickly-coated with rust. Its corrals contain no cattle, nor are any to be seen upon the pastures outside. In short, the estate shows as if it had an absentee owner, or none at all.

And the house might appear uninhabited, but for some peons seen sauntering listlessly around, and a barefoot damsel or two, standing dishevelled by its door, or in the kitchen kneeling over the metate, and squeezing out maize-dough for the eternal tortillas.

However, despite its neglected appearance, the hacienda has an owner; and with all their indolence, the lounging leperoa outside, and slatternly wenches within, have a master. He is not often at home, but when he is they address him as "Don Faustino." Servants rarely add the surname.

Only at rare intervals do his domestics see him. He spends nearly all his time elsewhere—most of it in Yerba Buena, now named San Francisco. And of late more than ever has he absented himself from his ancestral halls; for the hacienda is the house in which he was born; it, with the surrounding pasture-land, left him by his father, some time deceased.

Since coming into possession, he has neglected his patrimony; indeed, spent the greater portion of it on cards, and evil courses of other kinds; for the dueno of the ill-conditioned dwelling is Faustino Calderon.

As already hinted, his estate is heavily mortgaged, the house almost a ruin. In his absence, it looks even more like one; for then his domestics, having nothing to do, are scarce ever seen outside, to give the place an appearance of life. Fond of cards as their master, they may at most times be observed, squatted upon the pavement of the inner court, playing monte on a spread blanket, with copper clacos staked upon the game.

When the dueno is at home, things are a little different; for, Don Faustino, with all his dissipation, is anything but an indulgent master. Then his muchuchos have to move about, and wait upon him with assiduity. If they don't, they will hear carajos from his lips, and receive cuts from his riding-whip.

It is the morning after that night when the "El Dorado" monte bank suspended play and pay; the time, six o'clock a.m. Notwithstanding the early hour, the domestics are stirring about the place, as if they had something to do, and were doing it. To one acquainted with their usual habits, the brisk movement will be interpreted as a sure sign that their master is at home.

And he is; though he has been there but a very short while—only a few minutes. Absent for more than a week, he has this morning made his appearance just as the day was breaking. Not alone; but in the company of a gentleman, whom all the servants know to be his intimate friend and associate—Don Francisco de Lara.

The two have come riding up to the house in haste, dropped the bridles on the necks of their horses, and, without saying a word, left these to the care of a couple of grooms, rudely roused from their slumber.

The house-servants, lazily drawing the huge door of the saguan, see that the dueno is in ill-humour, which stirs them into activity; and in haste, they prepare the repast called for—desayuno.

Having entered and taken seats, Don Faustino and his guest await the serving of the meal.

For some time in silence, each with an elbow rested on the table, a hand supporting his head, the fingers buried in his hair.

The silence is at length broken; the host, as it should be, speaking first.

"What had we best do, De Lara? I don't think 'twill be safe staying here. After what's happened, they're sure to come after us."

"That's probable enough. Caspita! I'm puzzled to make out how that fellow who called out our names could have known we were there. 'Crusaders' he said they were; which means they were sailors belonging to the English warship. Of course the boat's crew that was waiting. But what brought them up; and how came they to arrive there and then, just in the nick of time to spoil our plans? That's a mystery to me."

"To me, too."

"There were no sailors hanging about the hotel that I saw; nor did we encounter any as we went through the streets. Besides, if we had, they couldn't have passed us, and then come on from the opposite side, without our seeing them—dark as it was. 'Tis enough to make me believe in second-sight."

"That appears the only way to explain it."

"Yes; but it won't, and don't. I've been thinking of another explanation, more conformable to the laws of nature."

"What?"

"That there's been somebody under that old boat. We stood talking there like four fools, calling out one another's names. Now, suppose one of those sailors was waiting by the boat as we came along, and seeing us, crept under it? He could have heard everything we said; and slipping off, after we went to the wall, might have brought up the rest of the accursed crew. The thing seems odd; at the same time it's possible enough, and probable too."

"It is; and now you speak of it. I remember something. While we were under the wall, I fancied I saw a man crouching along the water's edge, as if going away from the boat."

"You did?"

"I'm almost certain I did. At the time, I thought nothing of it, as we were watching for the other two; and I had no suspicion of any one else being about. Now, I believe there was one."

"And now, I believe so too. Carramba! that accounts for everything. I see it all. That's how the sailor got our names, and knew all about our design—that to do—murder! You needn't start at the word, nor turn pale. But you may at the prospect before us. Carrai! we're in danger, Calderon;—no mistake about it. Why the devil didn't you tell me of it—at the time you saw that man?"

"Because, as I've said, I had no thought it could be any one connected with them."

"Well, your thoughtlessness has got us into a fix indeed—the worst I've ever been in, and I can remember a few. No use to think about duelling now, whoever might be challenger. Instead of seconds, they'd meet us with a posse of sheriff's officers. Likely enough they'll be setting them after us before this. Although I feel sure our bullets didn't hit either, it'll be just as bad. The attempt will tell against us all the same. Therefore, it won't do to stay here. So direct your servants not to unsaddle. We'll need to be off, soon as we've swallowed a cup of chocolate."

A call from Don Faustino brings one of his domestics to the door; then a word or two sends him off with the order for keeping the horses in hand.

"Chingara!" fiercely exclaims De Lara, striking the table with his shut fist, "everything has gone against us."

"Everything, indeed. Our money lost, our love made light of, our revenge baffled—"

"No, not the last! Have no fear, Faustino. That's still to come."

"How?"

"How I you ask, do you?"

"I do. I can't see what way we can get it now. You know the English officers will be gone in a day or two. Their ship is to sail soon. Last night there was talk in the town that she might leave at any moment—to-morrow, or it may be this very day."

"Let her go, and them with her. The sooner the better for us. That won't hinder me from the revenge I intend taking. On the contrary, 'twill help me. Ha! I shall strike this Crozier in his tenderest part! and you can do the same for Senor Cadwallader."

"In what way?"

"Faustino Calderon, I won't call you a fool, notwithstanding your behaviour last night. But you ask some very silly questions, and that's one of them. Supposing these gringos gone from here, does it follow they'll take everything along with them? Can you think of nothing they must needs leave behind?"

"Their hearts. Is that what you mean?"

"No, it isn't."

"What then?"

"Their sweethearts, stupid! And that brings me to what I intend telling you—leastwise to the first chapter of it."

"Which is!"

"That somebody else is going away, too."

"Who?"

"Don Gregorio Montijo!"

"Don Gregorio Montijo?"

"Don Gregorio, daughter and grand-daughter."

"You astonish me! But are they leaving California for good?"

"Leaving it for good."

"That is strange intelligence, startling! Though I can understand the reason; that's well known."

"Oh, yes; the Don's disgusted with things as they now go here; and I suppose the senoritas are also. No wonder. Since these ragged and red-shirted gentry have taken possession of the place, it's not very agreeable for ladies to show themselves about; nor very safe, I should say. Good reason for Don Gregorio selling out, and betaking himself to quieter quarters."

"He has sold out, has he?"

"He has."

"You're sure of it?"

"Quite sure. Rafael Rocas has told me all about it. And for an enormous sum of money. How much do you suppose?"

"Perhaps 100,000 dollars. His property ought to be worth that."

"Whether it ought to be, or is, it has realised three times the amount."

"Carramba! Has Rocas said so?"

"He has."

"Has he told you who the generous purchaser is?"

"Some speculating Yankees, who fancy they see far into the future, and think Don Gregorio's pasture-land a good investment. There's a partnership of purchasers, I believe, and they've paid the money down, in cash."

"Already! What kind of cash?"

"The best kind—doubloons and dollars. Not all in coin. Some of it in the currency of California—gold-dust and nuggets."

"That's quite as good. Santissima! a splendid fortune. All for a piece of pasture-land, that twelve months ago wasn't worth a tenth part the amount! What a pity my own acres are already hypothecated! I might have been a millionaire."

"No! your land lies too far-off. These Yankees have bought Don Gregorio's land for 'town-lots,' as they call them. In due time, no doubt, they'll cover them with their psalm-singing churches and schoolhouses—though the first building put up should be a prison."

Both laugh together at this modest jeu d'esprit; their mirth having a double significance. For neither need be over-satisfied with the sight of a prison.

"By the Virgin!" exclaims Calderon, continuing the conversation; "Don Gregorio has done well, and he may be wise in quitting California. But what the devil are we to do about the girls? Of course, as you say, they're going to!"

"And so it may be. But not before another event takes place—one that may embarrass, and delay, if it do not altogether prevent their departure."

"Amigo; you talk enigmatically. Will you oblige me by speaking plainer?"

"I will; but not till we've had our chocolate, and after it a copita of Catalan. I need a little alcohol to get my brain in working order; for there's work for it to do. Enough now to tell you I've had a revelation. A good angel—or it may be a bad one—has visited me, and given it. A vision which shows me at the same time riches and revenge— pointing the straight way to both."

"Has the vision shown that I'm to be a sharer in these fine things?"

"It has; and you shall be. But only in proportion as you may prove yourself worthy."

"Por Dios! I'll do my best. I have the will, if you'll only instruct me in the way."

"I'll do that. But I warn you, 'twill need more than will—strength, secrecy, courage, determination."

"Desayuno, senores!"

This from one of the domestics announcing the chocolate served.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATIONS.

A few moments suffice the ruined gamblers for their slight matutinal repast. After which, a decanter of Catalonian brandy and glasses are placed upon the table, with a bundle of Manilla cheroots, size number one.

While the glasses are being filled, and the cigars lighted, there is silence. Then Calderon calls upon his guest to impart the particulars of that visionary revelation, which promises to give them, at the same time, riches and revenge.

Taking a sip of the potent spirit, and a puff or two at his cigar, De Lara responds to the call. But first leaning across the table, and looking his confederate straight in the face, he asks, in an odd fashion—

"Are you a bankrupt, Faustino Calderon?"

"Of course I am. Why do you put the question?"

"Because I want to be sure, before making known to you the scheme I've hinted at. As I've told you, I'm after no child's play. I ask again, are you a bankrupt?"

"And I answer you I am. But what has that to do with it?"

"A good deal. Never mind. You are one? You assure me of it?"

"I do. I'm as poor as yourself, if not poorer, after last night's losses. I'd embarked all my money in the Monte concern."

"But you have something besides money? This house and your lands?"

"Mortgaged—months ago—up to the eyes, the ears, crown of the head. That's where the cash came from to set up the bank that's broke— breaking me along with it."

"And you've nothing left? No chance for starting it again?"

"Not a claco. Here I am apparently in my own house, with servants, such as they are, around me. It's all in appearance. In reality, I'm not the owner. I once was, as my father before me; but can't claim to be any longer. Even while we're sitting here, drinking this Catalan, the mortgagee—that old usurer Martinez—may step in and turn—kick us both out."

"I'd like him to try. He'd catch a Tartar, if he attempted to kick me out—he or anybody else just now, in my present humour. There's far more reason for us to fear being pulled out by policemen, which makes it risky to stay talking. So let's to the point at once—back to where we left off. On your oath, Faustino Calderon, you're no longer a man of means?"

"On my oath, Francisco de Lara, I haven't an onza left—no, not a peso."

"Enough. Now that I know your financial status, we will understand one another; and without further circumlocution I shall make you a sharer of the bright thought that's flashed across my brain."

"Let me hear what it is. I'm all impatience."

"Not so fast, Faustino. As I've already twice told you, it's no child's play; but a business that requires skill and courage. Above all, fidelity among those who may engage in it—for more than two are needed. It will want at least four good and true men. I know three of them; about the fourth I'm not so certain."

"Who are the three?"

"Francisco de Lara, Manuel Diaz, and Raphael Rocas."

"And the fourth, of whom you are dubious?"

"Faustino Calderon."

"Why do you doubt me, De Lara?"

"Don't call it doubting. I only say I'm not certain about you."

"But for what reason?"

"Because you may be squeamish, or get scared. Not that there's much real danger. There mayn't be any, if the thing's cleverly managed. But there must be no bungling; and, above all, no backing out—nothing like treason."

"Can't you trust me so far as to give a hint of your scheme? As to my being squeamish, I think, De Lara, you do me injustice to suppose such a thing. The experience of the last twenty-four hours has made a serious change in my way of viewing matters of morality. A man who has lost his all, and suddenly sees himself a beggar, isn't disposed to be sensitive. Come, camarado! tell me, and try me."

"I intend doing both, but not just yet. It's an affair that calls for certain formalities, among them some swearing. Those who embark in it must be bound by a solemn oath; and when we all get together, that shall be done. Time enough then for you to know what I'm aiming at. Now, I only say, that if the scheme succeed, two things are sure, and both concern yourself, Faustino Calderon."

"What are they? You can trust me with that much, I suppose?"

"Certainly I can, and shall. The first is, that you'll be a richer man than you've ever been in your life, or at least since I've had the honour of your acquaintance. The second, that Don Gregorio Montijo will not leave California—that is, not quite so soon, nor altogether in the way he was wishing. You may have plenty of time yet, with opportunities, to press your suit with the fair Inez."

"Carramba! Secure me that, and I swear—"

"You needn't set about swearing yet. You can do that when the occasion calls for it; and, I promise, you shall have the opportunity soon. Till then I'll take your word. With one in love, as you believe yourself, that should be binding as any oath; especially when it promises such a rich reward."

"You're sure about Diaz and Rocas?"

"Quite so. With them there won't be need for any prolonged conference. When a man sees the chance of getting sixty thousand dollars in a lump lot, he's pretty certain to act promptly, and without being particular as to what that action is."

"Sixty thousand dollars! That's to be the share of each?"

"That, and more, maybe."

"It makes one crazy—even to think of such a sum!"

"Don't go crazed till you've got it; then you may."

"If I do, it won't be with grief."

"It shouldn't; since it will give you a fresh lease of sweet life; and renew your hopes of having the wife you want. But come; we must get away if we wish to avoid being taken away—though, I fancy, there's nothing to apprehend for some hours yet. The gringos have gone on board their ship, and are not likely to come on shore again before breakfast. What with their last night's revelry, it'll take them some time to clear the cobwebs out of their eyes after waking up. Besides, if they should make it a law matter, there'll be all the business of looking up warrants, and the like. They do such things rather slowly in San Francisco. Then there's the ten miles out here; even if they strike our trail straight. No; we needn't be in a hurry so far as that goes. But the other's a thing that won't keep, and must be set about at once. Fortunately, the road that takes us to a place of concealment, is the same we have to travel upon business; and that is to the rancho of Rocas. There I've appointed to meet Diaz, who'd have come with us here, but that he preferred staying all night in the town. But he'll be here betimes, and we can all remain with old Rafael till this ugly wind blows past; which it will in a week, or soon as the English ship sails off. If not, we must keep out of sight a little longer, or leave San Francisco for good."

"I hope we'll not be forced to that. I shouldn't at all like to leave it."

"Like it or not, you may have no choice. And what does it signify where a man lives, so long as he's got sixty thousand dollars to live on?"

"True; that ought to make any place pleasant."

"Well; I tell you you'll have it—maybe more. But not if we stand palavering here. Nos vamos!"

A call from Calderon summoned a servant, who is directed to have the horses brought to the door.

These soon appear, under the guidance of two ragged grooms; who, delivering them, see their masters mount and ride off they know not whither; nor care they so long as they are themselves left to idleness, with a plentiful supply of black beans, jerked-meat, and monte.

Soon the two horsemen disappear behind a ridge of hills; and the hypothecated house resumes its wonted look of desolation.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

A CONVERSATION WITH QUADRUMANA.

Notwithstanding his comfortable quarters in the frigate's forecastle, Harry Blew is up by early daybreak, and off from the ship before six bells have sounded.

Ere retiring to rest, he had communicated to his patron, Crozier, a full account of his zigzag wanderings through the streets of San Francisco, and how he came to bring the cutter's crew to the rescue.

As neither of the young officers is on the early morning watch, but both still abed, he does not wait their rising. For, knowing that the adage, "First come, first served," is often true, he is anxious as soon as possible to present himself at the office of the agent Silvestre, and from him get directions for going on board the Chilian ship. He is alive to the hint given him by Crozier, that there may be a chance of his being made a mate.

As yet he does not even know the name of the vessel, but that he will learn at the office, as also where she is tying.

His request to the lieutenant on duty for a boat to set him ashore, is at once and willingly granted. No officer on that frigate would refuse Harry Blew; and the dingy is placed at his service.

In this he is conveyed to the wooden pier, whose planking he treads with heavier step, but lighter heart, than when, on the night before, he ran along it in quest of Crusaders. With weightier purse too, as he carries a hundred pound Bank of England note in the pocket of his pea-jacket—a parting gift from the generous Crozier—besides a number of gold pieces received from Cadwallader, as the young Welshman's share of gratitude for the service done them.

Thus amply provided, he might proceed at once to the "Sailor's Home," and bring away his embargoed property.

He does not; thinking it better first to see about the berth on the Chilian ship; and therefore he steers direct for the agent's office.

Though it is still early, by good luck, Don Tomas chances to be already at his desk; to whom Harry hands the card given him by Crozier, at the same time declaring the purpose for which he has presented himself.

In return, he receives from Silvestre instructions to report himself on board the Chilian ship, El Condor; Don Tomas furnishing him with a note of introduction to her captain, and pointing out the vessel—which is visible from the door, and at no great distance off.

"Captain Lantanas is coming ashore," adds the agent; "I expect him in the course of an hour. By waiting here, you can see him, and it will save you boat-hire."

But Harry Blew will not wait. He remembers the old saying about procrastination, and is determined there shall be no mishap through negligence on his part, or niggardliness about a bit of a boat-fare. He has made up his mind to be the Condor's first mate—if he can.

Nor is it altogether ambition that prompts him to seek the office so earnestly. A nobler sentiment inspires him—the knowledge that, in this capacity, he may be of more service, and better capable of affording protection, to the fair creatures whom Crozier has committed to his charge.

The watermen of San Francisco do not ply their oars gratuitously. Even the shabbiest of shore-boats, hired for the shortest time, exacts a stiffish fare. It will cost Harry Blew a couple of dollars to be set aboard the Condor, though she is lying scarce three cables' length from the shore!

What cares he for that? It is nothing now.

Hailing the nearest skiff with a waterman in it, he points to the Chilian ship, saying:

"Heave along, lad; an' put me aboard o' yonder craft—that one as shows the three-colour bit o' bunting wi' a single star in the blue. The sooner ye do your job, the better ye'll get paid for it."

A contract on such conditions is usually entered into with alacrity, and with celerity carried out. The boatman beaches his tiny craft, takes in his fare, and in less than ten minutes' time Harry Blew swarms up the man-ropes of the Chilian ship, strides over the rail, and drops down upon her deck.

He looks around, but sees no one—at least nothing in the shape of a sailor. Only an old negro, with skin black as a boot, and crow-footed all over the face, standing beside two singular creatures nearly as human-like as himself, but covered with fox-coloured hair!

The ex-man-o'-war's man is for a time in doubt as to which of the three he should address himself. In point of intelligence there seems not much to choose. However, he with the black skin cuts short his hesitation by stepping forward, and saying:

"Well, mass'r sailor-man, wha' you come for? S'pose you want see de cappen? I'se only de cook."

"Oh, you're only the cook, are you? Well, old caboose; you've made a correct guess about my bizness. It's the capten I do want to see."

"All right. He down in de cabin. You wait hya. I fotch 'im up less'n no time!"

The old darkey shuffling aft, disappears down the companion-way, leaving Harry with the two monstrous-looking creatures, whom he has now made out to be orang-outangs.

"Well, mates!" says the sailor, addressing them in a jocular way, "what be your opeenyun o' things in general? D'ye think the wind's goin' to stay sou'-westerly, or shift roun' to the nor'-eastart?"

"Cro—cro—croak!"

"Oh, hang it, no. I ain't o' the croakin' sort. Ha'n't ye got nothin' more sensible than that to say to me!"

"Kurra—kra—kra. Cro—cro—croak!"

"No; I won't do anythink o' the kind; leastways, unless there turns out to be short commons 'board this eer craft. Then I'll croak, an' no mistake. But I say, old boys, how 'bout the grog? Reg'lar allowance, I hope—three tots a day?"

"Na—na—na—na—na—boof! Ta—ta—ta—fuff!"

"No! only two, ye say! Ah! that won't do for me. For ye see, shipmates—I s'pose I shall be callin' ye so—'board the old Crusader, I've been 'customed to have my rum reg'lar, three times the day; an' if it ain't same on the Condor, in the which I'm 'bout to ship, then, shiver my spars! if I don't raise sich a rumpus as—"

"Kurra—kurra—cro—cro—croak! Na—na—na—boof—ta—ta—pf—pf— piff!"

The sailor's voice is drowned by the gibbering of the orangs, his gesture of mock-menace, with the semi-serious look that accompanied it, having part frightened, part infuriated them.

The fracas continues, until the darkey returns on deck followed by the skipper; when the cook takes charge of the quadrumana, drawing them off to his caboose.

Captain Lantanas, addressing himself to the sailor, asks: "Un marinero?" [A seaman.]

"Si, capitan." [Yes, captain.]

"Que negocio tienes V. commigo?" [What is your business with me?]

"Well, capten," responds Harry Blew, speaking the language of the Chilian, in a tolerably intelligent patois, "I've come to offer my sarvices to you. I've brought this bit o' paper from Master Silvestre; it'll explain things better'n I can."

The captain takes the note handed to him, and breaks open the envelope. A smile irradiates his sallow face as he makes himself acquainted with its contents.

"At last a sailor!" he mutters to himself; for Harry is the only one who has yet offered. "And a good one too," thinks Captain Lantanas, bending his eyes on the ex-man-o'-war's man, and scanning him from head to foot.

But, besides personal inspection, he has other assurance of the good qualities of the man before him; at a late hour on the night before he held a communication with Don Gregorio, who has recommended him. The haciendado had reported what Crozier said, that Harry Blew was an able seaman, thoroughly trustworthy, and competent to take charge of a ship, either as first or second officer.

With Crozier's endorsement thus vicariously conveyed, the ex-man-o'-war's man has no need to say a word for himself. Nor does Captain Lantanas call for it. He only puts some professional questions, less inquisitorially than as a matter of form.

"The Senor Silvestre advises me that you wish to serve in my ship. Can you take a lunar?"

"Well, capten; I hev squinted through a quadrant afores now, an' can take a sight; tho' I arn't much up to loonars. But if there's a good chronometer aboard, I won't let a ship run very far out of her reck'nin'."

"You can keep a log-book, I suppose?"

"I dare say I can. I've larned to write, so 'st might be read; though my fist ain't much to be bragged about."

"That will do," rejoins the skipper, contentedly. "Now, Senor Enrique— I see that's your name—answer me in all candour. Do you think you are capable of acting as piloto?"

"By that you mean mate, I take it?"

"Yes; it is piloto in Spanish."

"Well, capten; 'tain't for me to talk big o' myself. But I've been over thirty year 'board a British man-o'-war—more'n one o' 'em—an' if I wan't able to go mate in a merchanter, I ought to be condemned to be cook's scullion for the rest o' my days. If your honour thinks me worthy o' bein' made first officer o' the Condor, I'll answer for it she won't stray far out o' her course while my watch be on."

"Bueno! Senor Enrique—B—blee. What is it?" asks the Chilian, re-opening the note, and vainly endeavouring to pronounce the Saxon surname.

"Blew—Harry Blew."

"Ah, Bloo—azul, esta?"

"No, capten. Not that sort o' blue. In Spanish, my name has a different significance. It means, as we say o' a gale after it's blowed past—it 'blew.' When it's been a big un, we say it 'blew great guns.' Now ye understan'?"

"Yes; perfectly. Well, Senor Bloo, to come to an understanding about the other matter. I'm willing to take you as my first officer, if you don't object to the wages I intend offering you—fifty dollars a month, and everything found."

"I'm agreeable to the tarms."

"Basta! When will it be convenient for you to enter in your duties?"

"For that matter, this minute. I only need to go ashore to get my kit. When that's stowed, I'll be ready to tackle on to work."

"Muy bien! senor; you can take my boat for it. And if you see any sailors who want to join, I authorise you to engage them at double the usual wages. I wish to get away as soon as a crew can be shipped. But when you come back we'll talk more about it. Call at Senor Silvestre's office, and tell him he needn't look for me till a later hour. Say I've some business that detains me aboard. Hasta Luego!"

Thus courteously concluding, the Chilian skipper returns to his cabin, leaving the newly appointed piloto free to look after his own affairs.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE "BLUE-PETER."

The ex-man-o'-war's man, now first officer of a merchant-vessel, and provided with a boat of his own, orders off the skiff he has kept in waiting, after tossing into it two dollars—the demanded fare. Then slipping down into the Condor's gig, sculls himself ashore.

Leaving his boat at the pier, he first goes to the office of the ship-agent, and delivers the message entrusted to him.

After that, contracting with a truckman, he proceeds to the "Sailor's Home," releases his impedimenta, and starts back to embark them in his boat. But not before giving the bar-keeper, as also the Boniface, of that establishment, a bit of his mind.

Spreading before their eyes the crisp hundred pound note, which as yet he has not needed to break, he says tauntingly:

"Take a squint at that, ye land-lubbers! There's British money for ye. An' tho' it be but a bit o' paper it's worth more than your gold-dross, dollar for dollar. How'd ye like to lay your ugly claws on't! Ah! you're a pair of the most dastardly shore-sharks I've met in all my cruzins; but ye'll never have Harry Blew in your grups again."

Saying this, he thrusts the bank-note back into his pocket; then paying them a last reverence with mock-politeness, and giving a twitch of his trousers, he starts after the truckman, already en route with his kit.

In accordance with the wishes of Captain Lantanas, he stays a little longer in the town, trying to pick up sailors. There are plenty of these sauntering along the streets and lounging at the doors of drinking-saloons.

But even double wages will not tempt them to abandon their free-and-easy life; and the Condor's first officer is forced to the conclusion, that he must return to the ship solus.

Assisted by the truckman, he gets his traps into the gig; and is about to step in himself, when his eye chances to turn upon the Crusader. There he sees something to surprise him—the Blue-Peter. The frigate has out signals for sailing! and he wonders at this; for there was no word of it when he was aboard. He knew, as all the others, that she was to sail soon—it might be in a day or two. But not as the signal indicates,—almost immediately!

While conjecturing what may be the cause of such hasty departure, he sees something that partly explains it. Three or four cables' length from the frigate is another ship, over whose taffrail floats the flag of England. At a glance, the ex-man-o'-war's man can tell her to be a corvette; at the same time recalling what, the night before, he has heard upon the frigate: that the coming of the corvette would be the signal for the Crusader's sailing.

While his heart warms to the flag thus doubly displayed in the harbour of San Francisco, it is a little saddened to see the other signal—the "Blue-Peter;" since it tells him he may not have an opportunity to take a more formal leave of his friends of the frigate, which he designed doing. He longs to make known to Mr Crozier and the midshipman the result of his application to the captain of the Chilian ship, and receive the congratulations of the young officers on his success; but now it may be impossible to communicate with them, by the Crusader so soon leaving port.

He has half a mind to put off for the frigate in the Condor's gig, into which he has got. But Captain Lantanas might, meanwhile, be wanting both him and the boat.

All at once, in the midst of his dilemma, he sees that which promises to help him out of it,—a small boat putting off from the frigate's sides, and heading right for the pier.

As it draws nearer, he can tell it to be the dingy.

There are three men in it—two rowers and a steersman.

As it approaches the pier-head, Harry recognises the one in the stern-sheets, whose bright ruddy face is turned towards him.

"Thank the Lord for such good luck!" he mutters. "It's Mr Cadwallader!"

By this the dingy has drawn near enough for the midshipman to see and identify him; which he does, exclaiming in joyful surprise:

"By Jove! it's Blew himself! Hallo there, Harry! You're just the man I'm coming ashore to see. Hold, starboard oar! Port oar, a stroke or two! Way enough!"

In a few seconds, the dingy is bow on to the gig; when Harry, seizing hold of it, brings the two boats side by side, and steadies them.

"Glad to see ye again, Master Willie. I'd just sighted the frigate's signal for sailin', an' despaired o' havin' the chance to say a last word to yourself, or Mr Crozier."

"Well, old boy; it's about that I've come ashore. Jump out; and walk with me a bit along the wharf."

The sailor drops his oar, and springs out upon the pier, the young officer preceding him.

When sufficiently distant from the boats to be beyond earshot of the oarsmen, Cadwallader resumes speech:

"Harry; here's a letter from Mr Crozier. He wants you to deliver it at the address you'll find written upon it. To save you the necessity of inquiring, I can point out the place it's to go to. Look along shore. You see a house—yonder on the top of the hill?"

"Sartinly, I see it, Master Willie; and know who lives theer. Two o' the sweetest creeturs in all Californey. I s'pose the letter be for one o' them?"

"No, it isn't, you dog; for neither of them. Read the superscription. You see it's addressed to a gentleman?"

"Oh! it's for the guv'nor hisself," rejoins Harry, taking the letter, and running his eye over the direction—Don Gregorio Montijo. "All right, sir. I'll put it in the old gentleman's flippers safe an' sure. Do you want me to go with it now, sir?"

"Well, as soon as you conveniently can; though there's no need for helter-skelter haste, since there wouldn't be time for an answer, anyhow. In twenty minutes we'll weigh anchor, and be off. I've hurried ashore to see you, hoping to find you at the ship-agent's office. How fortunate my stumbling on you here! For now I can better tell you what's wanted. In that letter, there's something that concerns Mr Crozier and myself—matters of importance to us both. When you've given it to Don Gregorio, he'll no doubt ask you some questions about what happened last night. Tell him all you know; except that you needn't say anything of Mr Crozier and myself having taken a little too much champagne—which we did. You understand, old boy?"

"Perfectly, Master Will."

"Good. Now Harry; I haven't another moment to stay. See! The ship's beginning to spread canvas! If I don't get back directly, I may be left here in California, never to rise above the rank of reefer. Oh! by the way, you'll be pleased to know that your friend Mr Crozier is now a lieutenant. His commission arrived by the corvette that came in last night. He told me to tell you, and I'd nearly forgotten it."

"I'm glad to hear it," rejoins the sailor, raising the hat from his head, and giving a subdued cheer; "right gled; an', maybe, he'll be the same, hearin' Harry Blew's been also promoted. I'm now first mate o' the Chili ship, Master Willie."

"Hurrah! I congratulate you on your good luck. I'm delighted to know that, and so will he be. We may hope some day to see you a full-fledged skipper, commanding your own craft. Now, you dear old salt, don't forget to look well after the girls. Again, good-bye, and God bless you!"

A squeeze of hands, with lingers entwined, tight as a reef-knot—then relaxed with reluctance—after which they separate. The mid, jumping into the dingy, is rowed back towards the Crusader; while Harry re-hires the truckman; but now only to stay by, and take care of his boat, till he can return to it, after executing the errand entrusted to him. Snug as his new berth promises to be, he would rather lose it than fail to deliver that letter.

And in ten minutes after, he has passed through the suburbs of the town, and is hastening along the shore-road, towards the house of Don Gregorio Montijo.



CHAPTER FORTY.

DREADING A "DESAFIO."

Once more upon the azotea stand Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez.

It is the morning of the day succeeding that made sacred by their betrothal. Their eyes are upon the huge warship, that holds the men who holds their hearts, with promise of their hands—in short, every hope of their life's happiness.

They could be happy now, but for an apprehension which oppresses them— causing them keen anxiety. Yesterday, with its scenes of pleasureable excitement, had also its incidents of the opposite kind; the remembrance of which too vividly remains, and is not to be got rid of. The encounter between the gamblers and their lovers cannot end with that episode, to which they were themselves witness. Something more will surely come from it.

And what will this something be? What should it? What could it, but a desafio—a duel?

However brave on yester-morn the two senoritas were, or pretended to be, however regardless of consequences, it is different to-day. The circumstances have changed. Then, their sweethearts were only suitors. Now, they are affianced, still standing in the relationship of lovers, but with ties more firmly, if not more tenderly, united. For are they not now their own.

Of the two girls, Inez is less anxious than the aunt, having less cause to be. With the observant intelligence of woman, she has long since seen that Calderon is a coward, and for this reason has but little belief he will fight. With instinct equally keen, Carmen knows De Lara well. After his terrible humiliation, he is not the man to shrink away out of sight. Blackleg though he be, he possesses courage—perhaps the only quality he has deserving of admiration. Once, she herself admired the quality, if not the man! That remembrance itself makes her fear what may come.

She talks in serious tone, discussing with her niece the probabilities of what may arise. The delirious joy of yester-eve—of that hour when she sat in her saddle, looking over the ocean, and listening to the sweet words of love—is to-day succeeded by depression, almost despondency.

While conversing, she has her eyes upon the bay, watching the boats that, at intervals, are rowed off from the warship, fearing to recognise in one the form of him so dear. Fearing it; for they know that her lover is not likely to be ashore again, and his coming now could only be on that errand she, herself, so much dreads—the duel. Duty should retain him on his, the young officer's, ship, but honour may require him once more to visit the shore—perhaps never to leave it alive!

Thus gloomily reflects Carmen, imparting her fears to the less frightened Inez; though she too is not without apprehension. If they but understood the "Code of Signals," all this misery would be spared them. Since from the frigate's main-royal masthead floats a blue flag, with a white square in its centre, which is a portent she will soon spread her sails, and glide off out of sight—carrying their amantes beyond all danger of duels, or shore-scrapes of any kind.

They observe the "Blue-Peter," but without knowing aught of its significance. They do not even try to interpret, or think of it; their thoughts, as their eyes, concentrated upon the boats that pass between ship and shore.

One at length specially arrests their attention, and keeps it for some time fixed. A small craft that, leaving the ship, is steered direct for the town. It passes near enough for them to see there are three men in it; two of them rowing, the other in the stern—this last in the uniform of an officer.

Love's glance is keen, and, aided by an opera-glass, it enables Inez Alvarez to identify the officer in the stern-sheets as Don Gulielmo. The other two—the oarsmen—are only sailors in blue serge shirts, with wide collars, falling far back.

For what the young officer is being rowed ashore, the ladies cannot guess. If for fighting, they know that another, and older, officer, would be with him. Where is Don Eduardo?

While still conjecturing, the boat glides on towards the town, and is lost to their view behind some sand-hills inshore.

Their glance going back to the ship, they perceive a change in her aspect. Her tall tapering masts, with their network of stays and shrouds, are half-hidden behind broad sheets of canvas. The frigate is unfurling sail! They are surprised at this, not expecting it so soon. With the help of their glasses, they observe other movements going on aboard the war-vessel: signal-flags running up and down their haulyards, while boats are being hoisted to the davits.

While still watching these manoeuvres, the little craft which carries the midshipman again appears, shooting out from behind the sand-hills, and rowed rapidly back to the ship, the young officer still in it.

On reaching the great leviathan, for a short time it shows like a tiny spot along her water-line; but, soon after, it too is lifted aloft, and over the bulwark rail.

Ignorant as the young ladies may be of nautical matters, they can have no doubt as to what all this manoeuvring means. The ship is about to sail!

As this is an event which interests all the family, Don Gregorio, summoned to the house-top, soon stands beside them.

"She's going off, sure enough," he says, after sighting through one of the glasses. "It's rather strange—so abruptly!" he adds. "Our young friends said nothing about it last night."

"I think they could not have known of it themselves," says Carmen.

"I'm sure they couldn't," adds Inez.

"What makes you sure, nina?" asked Don Gregorio.

"Well—because,"—stammers out the Andalusian, a flush starting into her cheeks—"because they'd have told us. They said they didn't expect to sail for a day or two, anyhow."

"Just so; but you see they're setting sail now—evidently intending to take departure. However, I fancy I can explain it. You remember they spoke of another warship they expected to arrive. Yonder it is! It came into port last night, and, in all likelihood, has brought orders for the Crusader to sail at once. I only wish it was the Condor! I sha'n't sleep soundly till we're safe away from—"

"See!" interrupts Carmen; "is not that a sailor coming this way?"

She points to a man, moving along the shore-road in the direction of the house.

"I think so," responds Don Gregorio, after a glance through the glass. "He appears to be in seaman's dress."

"Would he be coming here?" inquires Carmen, naively.

"I shouldn't be surprised; probably with a message from our young friends. It may be the man they recommended to me."

"That's why somebody went ashore in the little boat," whispers Inez to her aunt. "He's bringing us billetitas. I was sure they wouldn't go away without leaving a last little word."

Inez's speech imparts no information: for Carmen has been surmising in the same strain.

She replies by one of those proverbs, in which the Spanish tongue is so rich:

"Silencio! hay Moros en la costa,"—(Silence! there are Moors on the coast).

While this bit of by-play is being carried on, the sailor ascends the hill, and is seen entering at the road-gate. There can now be no uncertainty as to his calling. The blue jacket, broad shirt-collar, round-ribboned hat, and bell-bottomed trousers, are all the unmistakable toggery of a tar.

Advancing up the avenue in a rolling gait, with an occasional tack from side to side—that almost fetches him up among the manzanitas—he at length reaches the front of the house. There stopping, and looking up to the roof, he salutes those upon it by removing his hat giving a back-scrape with his foot, and a pluck at one of his brow-locks.

"Que guieres V., senor?"—(What is your business, sir?), asks the haciendado, speaking down to him.

Harry Blew—for it is he—replies by holding out a letter, at the same time saying:

"Your honour; I've brought this for the master o' the house."

"I am he. Go in through that door you see below. I'll come down to you."

Don Gregorio descends the escalera, and meeting the messenger in the inner court, receives the letter addressed to him.

Breaking it open, he reads:

"Estimable Sir,—Circumstances have arisen that take us away from San Francisco sooner than we expected. The corvette that came into port last night brought orders for the Crusader to sail at once; though our destination is the same as already known to you—the Sandwich Islands. As the ship is about to weigh anchor, I have barely time to write a word for myself, and Mr Cadwallader. We think it proper to make known some circumstances which will, no doubt, cause you surprise, as they did ourselves. Yesterday morning we met at your house two gentlemen—as courtesy would then have required me to call them—by name Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon. We encountered them at a later hour of the day; when an occurrence took place, which absolved us from either thinking of them as gentlemen, or treating them as such. And still later, after leaving your hospitable roof, we, for the third time, came across the same two individuals, under circumstances showing them to be professional gamblers! In fact, we found them to be the proprietors of a monte bank in the notorious 'El Dorado;' one of them actually engaged in dealing the cards! A spirit of fun, with perhaps a spice of mischief, led me into the play, and betting largely, I succeeded in breaking their bank. After that, for a short while we lost sight of them. But as we were making our way to the pier, where our boat was to meet us, we had a fourth interview with these 'gentlemen;' who on this occasion appeared with two others in the character of robbers and assassins! That they did not succeed in either robbing or murdering us, is due to the brave fellow who will bear this letter to you—the sailor of whom I spoke. He can give you all the particulars of the last, and latest, encounter with the versatile individuals, who claim acquaintance with you. You may rely on his truthfulness. I have no time to say more.

"Hoping to see you in Cadiz, please convey parting compliments to the senoritas—from the Senor Cadwallader and yours faithfully, Edward Crozier."

The letter makes a painful impression on the mind of Don Gregorio. Not that he is much surprised at the information regarding De Lara and Calderon. He has heard sinister reports concerning them; of late so loudly spoken, that he had determined on forbidding them further intercourse with his family. That very day he has been displeased on learning of their ill-timed visit. And now he feels chagrin at something like a reproach conveyed by that expression in Crozier's letter, "The versatile individuals who claim your acquaintance." It hurts his hidalgo pride.

Thrusting the epistle into his pocket, he questions its bearer; taking him into his private room, as also into his confidence.

The sailor gives him a detailed account of the attempt at murder, so accidentally frustrated; afterwards making known other matters relating to himself, and how he has taken service on the Chilian ship—Don Gregorio inquiring particularly about this.

Meanwhile, the young ladies have descended from the azotea, and the ex-man-o'-war's man makes their acquaintance.

They assist in showing him hospitality, loading him with pretty presents, and knick-knacks to be carried on board the Condor, to which they know he now belongs.

As he is about to depart, they flutter around him, speaking pleasant words, as if they expected to get something in return—those billetitas. For all, he takes departure, without leaving them a scrap!

A pang of disappointment—almost chagrin—shoots through the soul of Carmen, as she sees him passing out of sight. And similarly afflicted is Inez; both reflecting alike.

Still they have hope; there may be something enclosed for them in that letter they saw him holding up. It seemed large enough to contain two separate notes. And if not these, there should at least be a postscript with special reference to themselves.

Daughters of Eve, they are not long before approaching the subject, and drawing Don Gregorio.

Yes; there is something said about them in the letter. He communicates it:

"Parting compliments to the senoritas!"



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

THE LAST LOOK.

"Up anchor!"

The order rings along the deck of the Crusader, and the men of the watch stand by the windlass to execute it.

That same morning, Crozier and Cadwallader, turning out of their cots, heard with surprise the order for sending up the "Blue-Peter," as also that the ship was to weigh anchor by twelve o'clock noon. Of course, they were expecting it, but not so soon. However, the arrival of the corvette explains all; an officer from the latter vessel having already come on board the Crusader with despatches from the flag-ship of the Pacific Squadron.

These contain orders for the frigate to set sail for the Sandwich Islands without delay; the corvette to replace her on the San Francisco station.

The despatch-bearer has also brought a mail; and the Crusader's people get letters—home-news, welcome to those who have been long away from their native land; for she has been three years cruising in the South Sea.

Something more than mere news several of her officers receive. In large envelopes, addressed to them, and bearing the British Admiralty seal, are documents of peculiar interest—commissions giving them promotion.

Among the rest, one reaches Edward Crozier, advancing him a step in rank. His ability as an officer has been reported at headquarters; as also his gallant conduct in having saved a sailor's life—rescued him from drowning—that sailor Harry Blew. In all probability this has obtained him his promotion; but whatever the cause, he will leave San Francisco a lieutenant.

There are few officers, naval or military, who would not feel favoured and joyous at such an event in their lives. And so might Edward Crozier at any other time. But it has not this effect now. On the contrary, as the white canvas is being spread above his head, there is a black shadow upon his brow, while that of Cadwallader is alike clouded.

It is not from any regret either feels at leaving California; but leaving it under circumstances that painfully impress them. The occurrences of the day before, but more those of the night, have revealed a state of things that suggest unpleasant reflections, especially to the new-made lieutenant. He cannot cast out of his mind the sinister impression made upon it by the discovery that Don Francisco De Lara—his rival for the hand of Carmen Montijo—is no other than the notorious "Frank Lara," the keeper of a monte table in the saloon "El Dorado!" Now that he knows it, the knowledge afflicts him, to the laceration of his heart. No wonder at the formality of that letter which he addressed to Don Gregorio, or the insinuation conveyed by it. Nor strange the cold compliments with which it was concluded; far stranger had they been warm.

Among other unpleasant thoughts which the young officers have, on being so soon summoned away, is that of leaving matters unsettled with Messrs. De Lara and Calderon. Not that they have any longer either design or desire to stand before such cut-throats in a duel, nor any shame in shunning it. Their last encounter with the scoundrels would absolve them from all stigma or reproach for refusing to fight them—even were there time and opportunity. So, they need have no fear that their honour will suffer, or that any one will apply to them the opprobrious epithet—lache. Indeed, they have not, and their only regret is at not being able to spend another hour in San Francisco in order that they might look up the foiled assassins, and give them into the custody of the police. But then that would lead to a difficulty which had better be avoided—the necessity of leaving their ship, and staying to prosecute an action in courts where the guilty criminal is quite as likely to be favoured as the innocent prosecutor. It is not to be thought of, and long before the frigate's anchor is lifted, they cease thinking of it.

Crozier's last act before leaving port is to write the letter to Don Gregorio; Cadwallader's to carry it ashore, and deliver it to Harry Blew. Then, in less than twenty minutes after the returned midshipman sets foot on the frigate's deck, the order is issued for her sails to be sheeted home, the canvas hanging crumpled from her yards is drawn taut, the anchor hauled apeak, and the huge leviathan, obedient to her helm held in strong hands, is brought round, with head towards the Golden Gate.

The wind catches her spread sails, bellies them out, and in five minutes more, with the British flag floating proudly over her taffrail, she passes out of the harbour; leaving many a vessel behind, whose captains, for want of crews, bewail their inability to follow her.

But there are eyes following her, from farther off—beautiful eyes, that express sadness of a different kind, and from a different cause. Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez stand upon the house-top, glasses in hand. Instead, there should have been kerchiefs—white kerchiefs—waving adieu. And there would have been, but for those chilling words: "Parting compliments to the senoritas." Strange last words for lovers! Santissima! what can it mean?

So reflect they to whom they were sent, as they stand in attentive attitude, watching the warship, and straining their eyes upon her, till rounding Telegraph Hill she disappears from their sight.

A sad cruel shock both have received—a blow almost breaking their hearts.

Equally unhappy are two young officers on the departing ship. They too stand with glasses in hand levelled upon the house of Don Gregorio Montijo. They can see, as once before, two heads over the parapet, and, as before, recognise them; but not as before, or with the same feelings, do they regard them. All is changed now, everything doubtful and indefinite, where it might be supposed everything had been satisfactorily arranged. But it has not—especially in the thoughts of Crozier; whose dissatisfaction is shown in a soliloquy to which he gives utterance, as Telegraph Hill, interfering with his field of view, causes him to take the telescope from his eye.

"Carmen Montijo!" he exclaims, crushing it to its shortest, and returning the instrument to its case. "To think of a 'sport'—a common gambler—even having acquaintance with her—far less presuming to make love to her!"

"More than gamblers—both of them," adds Cadwallader by his side. "Robbers—murderers—anything if they had but the chance."

"Ay, true, Will; everything vile and vulgar. Don't it make you mad to think of it?"

"No, not mad. That isn't the feeling I have; rather fear."

"Fear! Of what!"

"That the scoundrels may do some harm to our dear girls. As we know now, they're up to anything. Since they don't stick at assassination, they won't at abduction. I hope your letter to Don Gregorio may open his eyes about them, and put him on his guard. My Inez! who's to protect her? I'd give all I have in the world to be sure of her getting safely embarked in that Chilian ship. Once there, dear old Harry Blew will take care of her—of them both."