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



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

A STRUGGLE WITH THE STORM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In very truth, are they in peril!

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



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

A CARD RECOVERED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then turning to Cadwallader, he says:

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

"Don't say that, Ned. There's still a hope we may find them."

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

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

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

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

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

"And I those of Inez Alvarez."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah! if I ever do that. With my arms around him, I once saved his worthless life. Let me but get him in my embrace again, and he'll have a hug that'll squeeze the last breath out of his body!"

"The chance may come yet, and with the whole scoundrelly crew. What brutes they must have been! According to Don Gregorio's account, they were of all nations, and the worst sort of each. The negro says the same. Among them four that spoke Spanish, and appeared to be Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans. Suppose we pay a visit to the forecastle, and see if we can find any record of their names. It might be of use hereafter."

"By all means!" asserts the lieutenant; "let us." They proceed towards the fore-deck in silence, their countenances showing a nervous apprehension. For there is a thought in their hearts, which neither has yet made known to the other—blacker, and more bitter, than even the thought of Harry Blew's treason.

Unspoken, they carry it into the forecastle; but they are not many minutes there, before seeing what brings it out, without either saying a word.

A bunk—the most conspicuous of the two tiers—is explored first. They turn out of it papers of various sorts: some letters, several numbers of an old newspaper, and a pack of Spanish playing-cards—all pictured. But among them is one of a different sort—a white one, with a name printed upon it.

A visiting card—but whose?

As Crozier picks it up, and reads the name, his blood curdles, the hair crisping on his head:

"Mr Edward Crozier; H.B.M. Frigate Crusader."

His own!

He does not need to be told how the card came there. Too well remembers he when, where, and to whom he gave it—to Don Francisco De Lara on the day of their encounter.

Thrusting it into his pocket, he clutches at the letters, and looks at their superscription—"Don Francisco de Lara!"

Opening, he rapidly reads them one after another. His hands holding them shake as with a palsy; while in his eyes there is a look of keenest apprehension. For he fears that, subscribed to some, he will find another name—that of Carmen Montijo! If so, farewell to all faith in human kind. Harry Blew's ingratitude has destroyed his belief in man. A letter from the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo to the gambler Frank Lara, will alike wither his confidence in woman.

With eager eyes, and lips compressed, he continues the perusal of the letters. They are from many correspondents, and relate to various matters, most about money and monte, signed "Faustino Calderon."

As the last of them slips through his fingers, he breathes freely, but with a sigh of self-reproach for having doubted the woman who was to have been his wife.

Turning to Cadwallader—as himself aware of all—he says, in solemn emphasis:

"Now we know!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

THE LAST LEAF IN THE LOG.

No common pirates then, no mere crew of mutinous sailors, have carried off Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez. It has been done by Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon, if or although there is no evidence of the latter having been aboard the barque, it is deducible, and not even doubtful. For a scheme such as that, the confederates were not likely to have parted.

The young officers have returned to the quarterdeck, and there stand gazing in one another's faces; on both an expression of anguish, which the new discovery has intensified. It was painful enough to think of their betrothed sweethearts being the sport of rough robbers; but to picture them in the power of De Lara and Calderon—knowing what they do of these men—is agony itself.

"Yes; it's all clear," says Crozier. "No idea of getting gold has brought the thing about. That may have influenced the others who assisted them; but with them the motive was different—I see it now."

"Do you know, Ned, I half suspected it from the first. You remember what I said as we were leaving San Francisco. After what happened between us and the gamblers, I had my fears about our girls being left in the same place with them. Still, who'd have thought of their following them aboard ship? Above all, with Blew there, and after his promise to protect them! You remember him saying, he would lay down his life for theirs?"

"He swore it—to me he swore it. Oh! if ever I set eyes on him again, I'll make him suffer for that broken oath!"

"What do you propose doing, after we reach Panama? If we find the frigate there, we'll be obliged to join her."

"Obliged! there's no obligation to bind a man situated as I—reckless as this misery makes me. Unless Captain Bracebridge consents to assist us in the search, I'll go alone."

"Not alone. There's one will be with you."

"I know it, Will. Of course, I count upon you. What I mean is, if Bracebridge won't help us with the frigate. I'll throw up my commission, charter a vessel myself, engage a crew, and search every inch of the American coast, till I find where they've put in."

"What a pity we can't tell the place! They must have been near land to have taken to an open boat."

"In sight of—close to it, I've been questioning Don Gregorio. He knows that much and but little beside. The poor gentleman is almost as crazed as the skipper. I wonder he's not more. He says they had sighted land that very morning, the first they saw since leaving California. The captain told them they would be in Panama in about two days after. As the boat was being rowed away, Don Gregorio saw a coast-line through the cabin windows, and not far-off. He saw their boat too, and they appeared making straight for it. Of course they—. That's all I can get out of the poor old gentleman, at present."

"The negro? Can he tell no better story?"

"I've questioned him too. He is equally sure of their having been close in. What point, he has no idea, any more than the orangs. However, he states a particular fact, which is more satisfactory. A short while before they seized hold of him, he was looking over the side, and saw a strangely shaped hill—a mountain. He describes it as having two tops. The moon was between them, the reason for his taking notice of it. That double-headed hill may yet stand us in stead."

"How unfortunate the skipper losing his senses! If he'd have kept them, he could have told us where he was at the time the barque was abandoned. It's enough to make one think the very Fates are against us. By the way, we've never thought of looking at the log-book. That ought to throw some light on the locality."

"It ought; and doubtless would, if we only had it. You're mistaken in saying we never thought of it. I have; and been searching for it everywhere. But it's gone; and what's become of it, I know not. They may have thrown it overboard before forsaking the ship—possibly to blot out all traces. Still, it's odd too, De Lara leaving these letters behind!"

"And the barque under all sail."

"Well, I take it, they were hurried, and of course expected she'd soon go to the bottom. Strange she didn't. No doubt she's met only smooth weather till we came aboard her."

"I wonder where her log-book can be?"

"Not more than I. The old darkey says it used to lie on a little shelf at the turning of the cabin-stair. I've looked there, but no log-book. As you say, it's enough to make one believe the Fates were against us. If so, we may never reach Panama, much less live to—"

"See," cries Cadwallader, interrupting the despairing speech. "Those brutes! what's that they're knocking about? By Jove! I believe it's the very thing we're speaking of!"

The brutes are the Myas monkeys, that, away in the ship's waist, are tossing something between them; apparently a large book bound in rough red leather. They have mutilated the binding, and, with teeth and claws, are tearing out the leaves, as they strive to take it from one another.

"It is—it must be the log-book!" cries Crozier, as both rush off to rescue it from the clutch of the orangs.

They succeed; but not without difficulty, and a free handling of handspikes—almost braining the apes before they consent to relinquish it.

It is at length recovered, though in a ruinous condition; fortunately, however, with the written leaves untorn. Upon the last of these is an entry, evidently the latest made:

"Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North; Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West. Light breeze."

"Good!" exclaims Crozier, rushing back to the quarterdeck, and bending over the chart. "With this, and the double-headed hill, we may get upon the track of the despoilers. Just when we were despairing! Will, old boy; there's something in this. I have a presentiment that things are taking a turn, and the Fates will yet be or us."

"God grant they may!"

"Ah?" sighs Crozier: "if we had but ten men aboard this barque—or even six—I'd never think of going on to Panama, but steer straight for the island of Coiba."

"Why the island of Coiba?" wonderingly asks Cadwallader.

"Because it must have been in sight when this entry was made—either it or Hicaron, which lies on its sou'west side. Look at this chart; there they are!"

The midshipman bends over the map, and scans it.

"You're right, Ned. They must have seen one or other of those islands, when the Chilian skipper made his last observation."

"Just so. And with a light breeze she couldn't have made much way after. Both the cook and Don Gregorio say it was that. Oh! for ten good hands. A thousand pounds apiece for ten stout, trusty fellows! What a pity in that squall the cutter's crew weren't left along with us."

"Never fear, Ned. We'll get them again, or as good. Old Bracebridge won't fail us, I'm sure. He's a dear old soul, and when he hears the tale we've to tell, it'll be all right. If he can't himself come with the frigate, he'll allow us men to man this barque; enough to make short work with her late crew, if we can once stand face to face with them. I only wish we were in Panama."

"I'd rather we were off Coiba; or on shore wherever the ruffians have landed."

"Not as we now are—three against twelve!"

"I don't care for that. I'd give ten thousand pounds to be in their midst—even alone."

"Ned, you'll never be there alone; wherever you go, I go with you. We have a common cause, and shall stand or fall together."

"That we shall. God bless you, Will Cadwallader! I feel you're worthy of the friendship—the trust I've placed in you. And now, let's talk no more about it; but bend on all the sail we can, and get to Panama. After that, we'll steer for the island of Coiba. We're so far fortunate, in having this westerly wind," he continues, in a more cheerful tone. "If it keep in the same quarter, we'll soon come in sight of land. And if this Chilian chart may be depended on, that should be a promontory on the west side of Panama Bay. I hope the chart's a true one; for Punta Malo, an its name imports, isn't a nice place to make mistakes about. By running too close to it with the wind in this quarter—"

"Steamer to norrard!" cries a rough voice, interrupting. It is Grummet's.

The young officers, turning with a start, see the same.

Crozier, laying hold of a telescope, raises it to his eye, while he holds it there, saying:

"You're right, cox: it is a steamer. And standing this way! She'll run right across our bows. Up helm, and set the barque's head on for her!"

The coxswain obeys; and with a few turns of the wheel brings the Condor's head round, till she is right to meet the steamer. The officers, with the negro assisting, loose tacks and sheets, trimming her sails for the changed course.

Soon the two vessels, going in almost opposite directions, lessen the distance between. And as they mutually make approach, each speculates on the character of the other. They on board the barque have little difficulty in determining that of the steamer. At a glance they see she is not a warship; but a passenger packet. And as there are no others in that part of the Pacific, she can be only one of the "liners" late established between San Francisco and Panama; coming down from the former port, her destination the latter.

Not so easy for those aboard the steamship to make out the manner of the odd-looking craft that has turned up in their track, and is sailing straight towards them. They see a barque, polacca-masted, with some sails set, and others hanging in shreds from her yards.

This of itself would be enough to excite curiosity. But there is something besides; a flag reversed flying at her mainmast-head—the flag of Chili! For the distress signal has not been taken down. And why it was ever run up, or by whom, none of those now in the barque could tell. At present it serves their purpose well, for, responding to it, the commander of the steam packet orders her engines to slow, and then cease action; till the huge leviathan, late running at the rate of twelve knots an hour, gradually lessens speed, and at length lies motionless upon the water.

Simultaneously the barque is "hove to," and she lies at less than a cable's length from the steamer.

From the latter the hail is heard first:

"Barque ahoy! What barque is that?"

"The Condor—Valparaiso. In distress."

"Send a boat aboard!"

"Not strength to man it."

"Wait, then! We'll board you."

In less than five minutes' time one of the quarter boats of the liner is lowered down, and a crew leaps into it.

Pushing off from her side, it soon touches that of the vessel in distress.

But not for its crew to board her. Crozier has already traced out his course of action. Slipping down into the steamer's boat, he makes request to be rowed to the ship; which is done without questioning. The uniform he wears entitles him to respect.

Stepping aboard the steamship, he sees that she is what he has taken her for: a line-packet from San Francisco, bound for Panama. She is crowded with passengers; at least a thousand seen upon her decks. They are of all qualities and kinds; all colours and nationalities; most of them Californian gold-diggers returning to their homes; some successful and cheerful; others downcast and disappointed.

He is not long in telling his tale; first to the commander of the steamer and his officers; then to the passengers.

For to these last he particularly addresses himself, in an appeal—a call for volunteers—not alone to assist in navigating the barque, but to proceed with him in pursuit of the scoundrels who cast her away.

He makes known his position, with his power to compensate them for the service sought; both endorsed by the commander of the steamship, who by good luck is acquainted with, and can answer for, his credentials.

Nothing of this is needed; nor yet the promise of a money reward. Among these stalwart men are many who are heroes—true Paladins, despite their somewhat threadbare habiliments. And amidst their soiled rags shine pistols and knives, ready to be drawn for the right.

After hearing the young officer's tale, without listening farther, twenty of them spring forward responsive to his call. Not for the reward offered, but in the cause of humanity and right. He would enlist twice or thrice the number, but deeming twenty enough, with these he returns to the Condor.

Then the two vessels part company, the steamer continuing on for Panama; while the barque, now better manned, and with more sail set, is steered for the point where the line of Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North intersects that of Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West.



CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

A LOTTERY OF LIFE AND DEATH.

While these scenes are passing upon the ocean, others of equally exciting character occur upon that desert isle, where, by ill-starred chance for themselves, the pirate crew of the Condor made landing.

They are still there, all their efforts to get off having proved idle. But how different now from that hour when they brought their boat upon its beach laden with the spoils of the plundered vessel! Changed not only in their feelings but looks—scarce recognisable as the same men. Then in the full plenitude of swaggering strength, mental as bodily, with tongues given to loud talk; now subdued and silent, stalking about like spectres, with weak, tottering steps; some sitting listlessly upon stones, or lying astretch along the earth; not resting, but from sheer inability to stand erect!

Famine has set its seal upon their faces; hunger can be read in their hollow eyes, and pale sunken cheeks; while thirst shows upon their parched and shrivelled lips.

Not strange all this. For nine days they have tasted no food, save shell-fish and the rank flesh of sea-fowl—both in scant supply. And no drink, excepting some rain-water caught in the boat-sail during an occasional slight shower.

All the while have they kept watch with an earnestness such as their desperate circumstances evoked. A tarpauling they have rigged up by oar and boat-hook, set upon the more elevated summit of the two—the highest point on the isle—has failed to attract the eye of any one on the mainland; or if seen, the signal has been disregarded; while to seaward, no ship or other vessel has been observed—nought but the blank blue of ocean, recalling their crime—in its calm tranquillity mocking their remorse!

Repentant are they now; and if they could, willingly would they undo their wicked deed—joyfully restore the stolen gold—gladly surrender up their captives—be but too glad to bring back to life those they have deprived of it.

It cannot be. Their victims left aboard the barque must have long ago gone to the bottom of the sea. In its bed they are now sleeping their last sleep, released from all earthly cares; and they who have so ruthlessly consigned them to their eternal rest, now almost envy it.

In their hour of agony, as hunger gnaws at their entrails, and thirst scorches them like a consuming fire, they reck little of life—some even desiring death!

All are humbled now. Even the haughty Gomez no longer affects to be their leader, and the savage Padilla is tamed to silent inaction, if not tenderness. By a sort of tacit consent, Harry Blew has become the controlling spirit—perhaps from having evinced more humanity than the rest. Now that adversity is on them, their better natures are brought out, and the less hardened of them have resumed the gentleness of childhood's days.

The change has been of singular consequence to their captives. These are no longer restrained, but free to go and come as it pleases them. No more need they fear insult or injury; no rudeness is offered them either by speech or gesture. On the contrary they are treated with studied respect, almost with deference. The choicest articles of food— bad at best—are apportioned to them, as also the largest share of the water; fortunately, sufficient of both to keep up their strength. And they in turn have been administering angels—tender nurses to the men who have made all their misery!

Thus have they lived up till the night of the ninth day since their landing on the isle; then a heavy rainfall, filling the concavity of the boat's sail, enables them to replenish the beaker, with other vessels they had brought ashore.

On the morning of the tenth, a striking change takes place in their behaviour. No longer athirst, the kindred appetite becomes keener, imparting a wolf-like expression to their features. There is a ghoulish glance in their eyes, as they regard one another, fearful to contemplate—even to think of. For it is the gaze of cannibalism!

Yes, it has come to this, though no one has yet spoken of it; the thing is only in their thoughts.

But as time passes, it assumes substantial shape, and threatens soon to be the subject not only of speech, but action.

One or two show it more than the rest—Padilla most of all. In his fierce eyes the unnatural craving is clearly recognisable—especially when his glances are given to the fair forms moving in their midst. There can be no mistaking that look of hungry concupiscence—the cold calculating stare of one who would eat human flesh.

It is the mid-hour of the day, and there has been a long interregnum of silence; none having said much on any subject, though there is a tacit intelligence, that the thoughts of all are on the same.

Padilla, deeming the hour has arrived, breaks the ominous silence:

"Amigos!" he says—an old appellation, considering the proposal he is about to make—"since there's no food obtainable, it's clear we've got to die of starvation. Though, if we could only hold out a little longer, something might turn up to save us. For myself, I don't yet despair but that some coasting craft may come along; or they may see our signal from the shore. It's only a question of time, and our being able to keep alive. Now, how are we to do that?"

"Ay, how?" asks Velarde, as if secretly prompted to the question.

"Well," answers Padilla, "there's a way, and only one, that I can think of. There's no need for all of us to die—at least, not yet. Some one should, so that the others may have a chance of being saved. Are you all agreed to it!"

The interrogatory does not require to be more explicitly put. It is quite comprehensible; and several signify assent, either by a nod, or in muttered exclamations. A few make no sign, one way or the other; being too feeble, and far gone, to care what may become of them.

"How do you propose, Padilla?"

It is again Velarde who questions.

Turning his eyes towards the grotto, in which the two ladies have taken refuge from the hot rays of the sun, the ruffian replies:

"Well, camarados! I don't see why men should suffer themselves to be starved to death, while women—"

Harry Blew does not permit him to finish his speech. Catching its significance, he cries:

"Avast there! Not another word o' that. If any o' as has got to be eaten, it must be a man. As for the women, they go last—not first. I, for one, will die afore they do; an' so'll somebody else."

Striker and Davis endorse this determination; Hernandez too, feebly; but Gomez in speech almost firm as that of Blew himself. In De Lara's breast there is a sentiment, which revolts at the horrid proposal of his confederate.

It is the first time he and Harry Blew have been in accord; and being so, there is no uncertainty about the result. It is silently understood, and but waits for one to declare it in words; which Striker does, saying:

"Though I hev been a convick, an' don't deny it, I an't a coward, nor no way afeerd to kick up my heels whensoever I see my time's come. If that he's now, an' Jack Striker's got to die, dash it! he's ready. But it must be a fair an' square thing. Theerfor, let it be settled by our castin' lots all round."

"I agree to that," growls Padilla; "if you mean it to include the women as well."

"We don't mean anythin' o' the sort," says Blew, springing to his feet. "Ye unmanly scoundrel!" he continues, approaching Padilla,—"Repeat your dastardly proposal, an' there'll be no need for drawin' lots. In a minnit more, eyther you or me'll make food, for anybody as likes to eat us. Now!"

The Californian, who has still preserved much of his tenacious strength, and all of his ruffian ferocity, nevertheless shrinks and cowers before the stalwart sailor.

"Carajo!" he exclaims, doggedly and reluctantly submitting. "Be it as you like. I don't care any more than the rest of you. When it comes to facing Fate, Rafael Rocas isn't the man to show the white-feather. I only proposed what I believed to be fair. In a matter of life and death, I don't see why women are any better than men. But if you all think different, then be it as you say. We can cast lots, leaving them out."

Padilla's submissive speech puts an end to the strange debate. The side-issue is decided against him, and the main question once more comes up.

After a time, it too is determined. Hunger demands a victim. To appease it one must die.

The horrid resolve reached, it remains but to settle the mode of selection. No great difficulty in this, and it is got over by Striker saying:

"Chums! theer's just twelve o' us, the even dozen. Let's take twelve o' them little shells ye see scattered about, an' put 'em into the boat's pannikin. One o' them we can mark. Him as draws out the marked shell, must—I needn't say what."

"Die" would have been the word, as all understand without hearing it spoken.

The plan is acceptable, and accepted. There seems no fairer for obtaining the fiat of Fate on this dread question.

The shells—unios—lie thickly strewn over the ground. There are thousands, all of the same shape and size. By the "feel" it would be impossible to tell one from another. Nor yet by their colour, since all are snow-white.

Twelve of them are taken up, and put into the tin pannikin—a quart measure—one being marked with a spot of red—by blood drawn from Striker's own arm, which he has purposely punctured. Soon absorbed by the porous substance of the shell, it cannot be detected by the touch.

The preliminaries completed, all gather around, ready to draw. They but wait for him who is on watch beside the spread tarpauling, and who must take his chances with the rest in this lottery of life and death. It is the Dutchman who is above. They have already hailed, and commanded him to come down, proclaiming their purpose.

But he neither obeys them, nor gives back response. He does not even look in their direction. They can see him by the signal-staff, standing erect, with face turned towards the sea, and one hand over his eyes shading them from the sun. He appears to be regarding some object in the offing.

Presently he lowers the spread palm, and raises a telescope with which he is provided.

They stand watching him, speechless, and with bated breath, their solemn purpose for the time forgotten. In the gleam of that glass they have a fancy there may be life, as there is light.

The silence continues till 'tis seen going down. Then they hear words, which send the blood in quick current through their veins, bringing hope back into their hearts. They are:

"Sail in sight!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

BY THE SIGNAL-STAFF.

"Sail in sight!"

Three little words, but full of big meaning, of carrying the question of life or death.

To the ears of that starving crew sweet as music, despite the harsh Teutonic pronunciation of him who gave them utterance.

Down drops the pannikin, spilling out the shells; which they have hopes may be no more needed.

At the shout from above, all have faced towards the sea, and stand scanning its surface. But with gaze unrewarded. The white flecks seen afar are only the wings of gulls.

"Where away?" shouts one, interrogating him on the hill.

"Sou'-westart."

South-westward they cannot see. In this direction their view is bounded; a projection of the cliff interposing between them and the outside shore. All who are able start off towards its summit. The stronger ones rush up the gorge as if their lives depended on speed. The weaker go toiling after. One or two, weaker still, stay below to wait the report that will soon reach them.

The first up, on clearing the scarp, have their eyes upon the Dutchman. His behaviour might cause them surprise, if they could not account for it. As said, the beacon is upon the higher of the two peaks, some two hundred yards beyond the clift's brow. He is beside it, and apparently beside himself. Dancing over the ground, he makes grotesque gesticulations, tossing his arms about, and waving his hat overhead—all the while shouting as if to some vessel close at hand—calling in rapid repetition:

"Ship, Ahoy! Ahoy!"

Looking they can see no ship, nor craft of any kind. For a moment they think him mad, and fear, after all, it may be a mistake. Certainly there is no vessel near enough to be hailed.

But sending their eyes farther out, their fear gives place to joy almost delirious. There is a sail, and though leagues off, seeming but a speck, their practised eyes tell them she is steering that way—running coastwise. Keeping this course, she must come past the isle—within sight of their signal, so long spread to no purpose.

Without staying to reflect farther, they strain on towards the summit, where the staff is erected.

Harry Blew is the first to reach it; and clutching the telescope, jerks it from the hands of the half-crazed Dutchman. Raising it to his eye, he directs it on the distant sail—there keeping it more than a minute. The others have meanwhile come up, and, clustering around, impatiently question him.

"What is she? How's she standing?"

"A bit o' a barque," responds Blew. "And from what I can make out, close huggin' the shore. I'll be better able to tell when she draws out from that clump of cloud."

Gomez, standing by, appears eager to get hold of the glass; but Blew seems unwilling to give it up. Still holding it at his eye, he says:

"See to that signal, mates! Spread the tarpaulin' to its full streetch. Face it square, so's to give 'em every chance of sightin' it."

Striker and Davis spring to the piece of tarred canvas; and grasping it, one at each corner, draw out the creases, and hold as directed.

All the while Blew stands with the telescope levelled, loath to relinquish it. But Gomez, grown importunate, insists on having his turn, and it is at length surrendered to him.

Blew, stepping aside, seems excited with some emotion he would conceal. Strong it must be, judging from its effects on the ex-man-o'-war's man. On his face there is an expression difficult to describe—surprise amounting to amazement—joy subdued by anxiety. Soon, as having given up the glass, he pulls off his dreadnought, then divesting himself of his shirt—a scarlet flannel—he suspends it from the outer end of the cross-piece which supports the tarpauling; as he does so, saying to Striker and Davis:

"That's a signal no ship ought to disregard, and won't if manned by Christian men. She won't, if she sees it. You two stay here, and keep the things well spread I'm goin' below to say a word to them poor creeturs in the cave. Stand by the staff, and don't let any o' them haul it down."

"Ay, ay!" answers Striker, without comprehending, and somewhat wondering at Blew's words—under the circumstances strange. "All right, mate. Ye may depend on me an' Bill."

"I know it—I do," rejoins the ex-man-o'-war's man, again slipping the pilot-coat over his shirtless skin.

"Both o' you be true to me, and 'fore long I may be able to show as Harry Blew an't ungrateful."

Saying this, he separates from them, and hurries back down the gorge.

The Sydney Ducks, left standing by the staff, more than ever wonder at what he has said, and interrogate one another as to his meaning.

In the midst of their mutual questioning, they are attracted by a cry strangely intoned. It is from Gomez, who has brought down the telescope, and holds it in hands that shake as with a palsy.

"What is it?" asks Padilla, stepping up to him.

"Take the glass, Rafael Rocas. See for yourself!"

The contrabandista does as directed.

He is silent for some seconds, while getting the telescope on the strange vessel. Soon as he has her within the field of view, he commences making remarks, overheard by Striker and Davis, giving both surprise—though the latter least.

"Barque she is—polacca-masts. Carramba! that's queer. About the same bulk, too! If it wasn't that we're sure of the Condor being below, I'd swear it was she. Of course, it can be only a coincidence. Santissima! a strange one!"

Velarde, in turn, takes the telescope; he, too, after a sight through it, expressing himself in a similar manner.

Hernandez next—for the four Spaniards have all ascended to the hill.

But Striker does not wait to hear what Hernandez may have to say. Dropping the tarpauling, he strides up to him, and, sans ceremonie, jerks the instrument out of his fingers. Then bringing it to his eye, sights for himself.

Less than twenty seconds suffice for him to determine the character of the vessel. Within that time, his glance taking in her hull, traversing along the line of her bulwarks, and then ascending to the tops of her tall smooth masts, he recognises all, as things with which he is well acquainted.

He, too, almost lets drop the telescope, as, turning to the others, he says in a scared, but confident voice:

"By God, its the Condor!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

A VERY NEMESIS.

Striker's announcement, profanely as emphatically made, thrills the hearts of those hearing it with fear. Not fear of the common kind, but a weird undefinable apprehension.

"Caspitta!" exclaims Padilla. "The Condor! that cannot be. How could it?"

"It's her for all that," returns Striker. "How so, I don't understan' any more than yourselves. But that yonder craft be the Chili barque, or her ghost, I'll take my affydavy on the biggest stack o' Bibles."

His words summon up strange thoughts which take possession of the minds of those listening. For how can it be the Condor, scuttled, sent to the bottom of the sea? Impossible!

In their weak state, with nerves unnaturally excited, they almost believe it an illusion—a spectre! One and all are the prey to wild fancies, that strike terror to their guilty souls. Something more than mortal is pursuing—to punish them. Is it the hand of God? For days they have been in dread of God's hand; and now they seem to see it stretched out, and coming towards them! Surely a Fate—an avenging Nemesis!

"It's the barque, beyond doubt!" continues Striker, with the glass again at his eye. "Everythin' the same, 'ceptin' her sails, the which show patched-like. That be nothin'. It's the Chili craft, and no other. Yonner's the ensign wi' the one star trailin' over her taffrail. Her, sure's we stan' heer!"

"Chingara!" cries Gomez. "Where are they who took charge of the scuttling? Did they do it?"

Remembering the men, all turn round, looking for them. They are not among the group gathered around the staff. Blew has long ago gone down the gorge, and Davis is just disappearing into it.

They shout to him to come back. He hears; but heeds not. Continuing on, he is soon out of sight.

It matters little questioning him, and they give up thought of it. The thing out at sea engrosses all their attention.

Now nearer, the telescope is no longer needed to tell that it is a barque, polacca-masted; in size, shape of hull, sit in the water— everything the same as with the Condor. And the bit of bunting, red, white, blue—the Chilian ensign—the flag carried by the barque they abandoned. They remember a blurred point in the central star: 'tis there!

Spectre or not, with all canvas spread, she is standing towards them— straight towards them—coming on at a rate of speed that soon brings her abreast the islet. She has seen their signal—no doubt of that. If there were—it is before long set at rest. For, while they are watching her, she draws opposite the opening in the reef; then lets sheets loose; and, squaring her after-yards, is instantly hove to.

A boat is dropped from the davits; as it strikes the water, men are seen swarming over the side into it. Then the plash of oars, their wet blades glinting in the sun; as the boat is rowed through the reef-passage.

Impelled by strong arms, it soon crosses the stretch of calm water, and shoots up into the cove.

Beaching it, the crew spring out on the pebbly strand—some not waiting till it is drawn up, but dashing breast-deep into the surf. There are nearly twenty, all stalwart fellows, with big beards—some in sailor garb, but most red-shirted, belted, bristling with bowie-knives, and pistols!

Two are different from the rest—in the uniform of naval officers, with caps gold-banded. One of these seems to command, being the first to leap out of the boat; soon as on shore, drawing his sword, and advancing at the head of the others.

All this observed by the four Spaniards, who are still around the signal-staff, like it, standing fixed; though not motionless, for they are shaking with fear. Their apprehensions, hitherto, of the supernatural, are now real. Even Frank Lara, despite his great courage—his only good quality—feels fear now. For in the officer, leading with drawn sword, he recognises the man who made smash of his Monte bank!

For some moments, he stands in silence, with eyes dilated. He has watched the beaching of the boat, and the debarking of her crew, without saying word. But, soon as recognising Crozier, he clutches Calderon by the arm; more vividly than ever now his crime recalled to him, for now its punishment, as that of them all, seems near. There is no chance to escape it. To resist, will only be to hasten their doom—death.

They do not think of resistance, nor yet flight; but remain upon the hill-top, sullen and speechless.

Calderon is the first to break the silence, frantically exclaiming:

"Santos Dios! the officers of the English frigate! Mystery of Mysteries! What can it mean?"

"No mystery," rejoins De Lara, addressing himself to the other three; "none whatever. I see it all now, clear as the sun at noonday. Blew has been traitor to us, as I suspected all along. He and Davis have not scuttled the barque, but left her to go drifting about; and the frigate to which these officers belong has come across, picked her up—and lo! they are there!"

"That's it, no doubt," says Velarde, otherwise Don Manuel Diaz. "But those rough fellows along with them don't appear to be men-of-war's men, nor sailors of any kind. More like gold-diggers, I should say; such as crowd the streets of San Francisco. They must have come thence."

"It matters not what they are, or where from. Enough that they're here, and we in their power."

At this Diaz and Padilla, now known as Rafael Rocas, step towards the cliff's edge to have a look below, leaving the other two by the staff.

"What do you suppose they'll do to us?" asks Calderon of De Lara. "Do you think they'll—"

"Shoot, or hang us?" interrupts De Lara; "that's what you'd say. I don't think anything about it. I'm sure of it. One or other they'll do, to a certainty."

"Santissima!" piteously exclaims the ex-ganadero. "Is there no chance of escaping?"

"None whatever. No use our trying to get away from them. There's nowhere we could conceal ourselves; not a spot to give us shelter for a single hour. For my part, I don't intend to stir from this spot. I may as well be taken here as anywhere else. Carramba, no!" he exclaims, as if something has occurred to make him change his mind. "I shall go below, and meet my death like a man. No; like a tiger. Before dying, I shall kill. Are you good to do the same? Are you game for it?"

"I don't comprehend you," answers Calderon. "Kill what, or whom?"

"Whomsoever I can. Two for certain."

"Which two?"

"Edward Crozier and Carmen Montijo. You may do as you please. I've marked out my pair, and mean to have their lives before yielding up my own—hers, if I can't his. She sha'n't live to triumph over me. No; by the Almighty God!"

While speaking, the desperado has taking out his revolver, and holding it at half-cock, spins the cylinder round, to see that all the six chambers are loaded, with the caps on the nipples. Assured of this, he returns it to its holster; and then glances at his machete, hanging on his left hip. All this with a cool carefulness, which shows him determined upon his hellish purpose.

Calderon, trembling at the very thought of it, endeavours to dissuade him; urging that, after all, they may be only made prisoners, and leniently dealt with.

He is cut short by De Lara crying out:

"You may go to prison and rot there, if it so please you. After what's happened, that's not the destiny for me. I prefer death, and vengeance."

"Better life, and vengeance," cries Rocas, coming up, Diaz along with him, both in breathless haste. "Quick, comrades!" he continues; "follow me! I'll find a way to save the first, and maybe get the last, sooner than you expected."

"It's no use, Rafael," argues De Lara, misunderstanding the speech of the seal-hunter. "If we attempt flight, they'll only shoot us down the sooner. Where could we flee too?"

"Come on; I'll show you where. Carajo! Don't stand hesitating; every second counts now. If we can but get ther in time—"

"Get where?"

"Al bote!"

On hearing the words, De Lara utters an exclamation of joy. They apprise him of a plan which may not only get him out of danger, but give revenge, sweet as ever fell to the lot of mortal man.

He hesitates no longer, but hastens after the seal-hunter; who, with the other two, has already started towards the brow of the cliff.

But not to stay there; for in a few seconds after the four are descending it; not through the gorge by which they came up, but another—also debouching into the bay.

Little dream the English officers, or the brave men who have landed with them, of the peril impending. If the scheme of the seal-hunter succeed, theirs will be a pitiful fate: the tables will be turned upon them!



CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

ALMOST A MURDER.

At the cliff's base, the action, simultaneous, is even more exciting.

Having left their boat behind, with a man to take care of it, the rescuers advance towards the inner end of the cove.

At first with caution: till passing the rock-portal, they see the platform and those on it.

Then the young officers rush forward, with no fear of having to fight. Instead of armed enemies to meet them, they behold the dear ones from whom they have been so long apart. Beside them, half-a-dozen figures, more like skeletons than men—with cowed, craven faces, seeming so feeble as to have a difficulty in keeping their feet!

With swords sheathed, and pistols returned to their holsters, the English officers hasten on, the young ladies rushing out to receive them.

Soon they are together, two and two, breasts touching, and arms enfolded in mutual embrace.

For a while no words—the hearts of all too full for speech. Only ejaculations and kisses, with tears, but not of sorrow.

Then succeeds speech, necessarily brief and half-incoherent, Crozier telling Carmen that her father is still alive, and aboard the barque. He lives—he is safe! that is enough.

Then in answer to his questions, a word or two, on her fide. But without waiting to hear all, he turns abruptly upon Harry Blew, who is seen some paces off. Neither by word, nor gesture, has the sailor yet saluted him. He stands passive, a silent spectator; as Crozier supposes, the greatest criminal on earth. In quick retrospect of what has occurred, and what he has heard from Don Gregorio, how could it be otherwise?

But he will not condemn without hearing him, and stepping up to the ex-man-o'-war's man, he demands explanation of his conduct, sternly saying:

"Now, sir, I claim an account from you. Tell your story straight, and don't conceal aught, or prevaricate. If your treason be as black as I believe it, you deserve no mercy from me. And your only chance to obtain it, will be by telling the truth."

While speaking, he has again drawn his sword, and stands confronting the sailor—as if a word were to be the signal for thrusting him through.

Blew is himself armed with both pistol and knife. But, so far from touching either, or making any sign of an intention to defend himself he remains cowed-like, his head drooping down to his breast.

He gives no response. His lips move not; neither his arms nor limbs. Alone, his broad chest heaves and falls, as if stirred by some terrible emotion.

His silence seems a confession of guilt!

Taking, or mistaking, it for this, Crozier cries out:

"Traitor! Confess, before I run this blade through your miserable body!"

The threat elicits an answer.

"You may kill me, if you wish, Master Edward. By rights, my life belongs to ye. But, if you take it, I'll have the satisfaction o' knowin', I've done the best I could to prove my gratefulness for your once savin' it."

Long before he has finished his strange speech, the impending stroke is stayed, and the raised blade dropped point downward. For, on the hand which grasps it, a gentler one is laid, a soft voice saying:—

"Hold, Eduardo! Dios de mi alma! What would you do? You know not. This brave man—to him I owe my life—I and Inez."

"Yes," adds Inez, advancing, "more than life. 'Tis he who protected us."

Crozier stands trembling, the sword almost shaken from his grasp. And while sheathing it, he is told how near he has been to doing that which would ever after have made him miserable.

He feels like one withheld from murder—almost parricide. For to have killed Harry Blew, would have been like killing his own father.

The exciting episode is almost instantly succeeded by another, even more stirring, and longer sustained. While Carmen is proceeding to explain her interference on behalf of Blew, she is interrupted by cries coming up from the beach. Not meaningless shouts, but words of ominous import.

"Ahoy, there! help! help!"

Coupled with them, Crozier hears his own name, then the "Help, help!" reiterated; recognising the voice of the man left in charge of the boat—Grummet.

Without hesitating an instant, he springs off toward the strand, Cadwallader and the gold-diggers following; two staying to keep guard over those of the robbers who have surrendered.

On clearing the rocky ledge, they see what is causing the coxswain to sing out in such terrified accents. Grummet is in the boat, but upon his feet, with a boat-hook in his hands, which he brandishes in a threatening manner, shouting all the while. Four men are making towards him fast as their legs can carry them. They are coming along the beach from the right side of the cove.

At a glance the English officers recognise two of them—De Lara and Calderon—sooner from their not meeting them there unexpectedly. For aware that they are on the isle, they were about to go in quest of those gentlemen, after settling other affairs.

No need to search for them now. There they are, with their confederates, rushing direct for the boat—already within pistol-shot of it.

Nor can there be any doubt about their intention to seize upon the boat and carry her off!



CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.

THE TABLES NEARLY TURNED.

The sight thus unexpectedly brought before the eyes of the rescuers sends a shiver through their hearts, and draws exclamations of alarm from their lips. With quick intuition one and all comprehend the threatened danger. All at that moment remember having left only two or three men on the barque; and, should the pirates succeed in boarding, they may carry her off to sea, leaving themselves on the isle.

The prospect is appalling! But they do not dwell upon it; they have neither time, nor need. It is too clear, like a flash passing before their minds, in all its dread details! Without waiting to exchange word with one another, they rush on to arrest the threatened catastrophe, bounding over the rocks, crashing through shells and pebbles. But they are behind time, and the others will reach the boat before them!

Crozier, perceiving this, shouts to the coxswain—

"Shove off, Grummet! Into deep water with you!"

Grummet, understanding what is meant, brings the boat-hook point downward, and with a desperate effort, pushes the keel clear, sending the boat adrift.

But before he can repeat the push, pistols are fired, and, simultaneous with their reports, he is seen to sink down, and lie doubled over the thwarts.

A yell of vengeance peals from the pursuing party; and, maddened, they rush on. They will be too late! Already the pirates have reached the boat, now undefended; and all four together, swarming over the gunwale, drop down upon the thwarts, each as he does so seizing hold of an oar, and shipping it.

In agony, Crozier cries out—

"O God! are they to get away—these guilty, redhanded wretches?"

It would seem so. They have already dipped their oar-blades into the water, and commenced pulling, while they are beyond pistol-range.

Ha! something stays them! God is not for them. Their arms rise and fall, but the boat moves not! Her keel is on a coral bottom; her bilge caught upon its rough projections. Their own weight pressing down, holds her fast, and their oar-strokes are idly spent!

They had not thought of being thus stayed; though it proves the turning-point of their fate.

No use their leaping out now, to lighten the boat; no time for that, nor any chance to escape. But two alternatives stare them in the face— resistance, which means death; surrender, that seems the same.

De Lara would resist and die; so also Rocas. But the other two are against it, instinctively holding on to whatever hope of life be left them.

The craven Calderon cuts short the uncertainty by rising erect, stretching forth his arms, and crying out in a piteous appeal for mercy.

In an instant after they are surrounded, the boat grasped by the gunwale, and dragged back to the shore. Crozier with difficulty restrains the angry gold-diggers from shooting them down on the thwarts. Well for them the coxswain has not been killed, but only wounded, and in no danger of losing his life. Were it otherwise, theirs would be taken on the spot.

Assured of his safety, his rescuers pull the four wretches out of the boat; then disarming, drag them up to the platform, and bestow them in the larger cave: for a time to be their prison, though not long. For, there is a judge present, accustomed to sit upon short trials, and pass quick sentences, soon succeeded by their execution. He is the celebrated Justice Lynch.

Represented by a stalwart digger—all the others acting as Jury—the trial is speedily brought to a termination. For the four of Spanish nationality the verdict is guilty—the sentence, death—on the scaffold.

The others, less criminal, are to be carried on to Panama, and there delivered over to the Chilian consul; their crime being mutiny, with robbery, and abandonment of a Chilian vessel.

An exception is made in the case of Striker and Davis. The "Sydney Ducks" receive conditional pardon, on promise of better behaviour throughout all future time. This they obtain by the intercession of Harry Blew, in accordance with the hint he gave them while they were standing together beside the spread tarpauling.

Of the men sentenced to be hanged, one meets his fate in a different manner. The gold-dust has been recovered, packed, and put into the boat. The senoritas are cloaked, and impatient to be taken back to the barque, yearning to embrace him they have so long believed dead.

The English officers stand beside them; all awaiting the last scene of the tragedy—the execution of the condemned criminals.

The stake has been set for it; this the level plot of ground in front of the cavern's month. A rope hangs down with a running noose at one end; the other, in default of gallow's arm and branch of tree, rigged over the point of a projecting rock.

All this arranged, De Lara is led out first, a digger on each side of him. He is not tied, nor confined in any way. They have no fear of his making his escape.

Nor has he any thoughts of attempting it; though he thinks of something else, as desperate and deadly. He will not die like a scared dog, but as a fierce tiger; to the last thirsting for blood, to the end trying to destroy—to kill! The oath sworn by him above on the cliff, he still is determined on keeping.

As they conduct him out of the cave, his eyes glaring with lurid light, go searching everywhere, till they rest upon a group some twenty paces distant. It is composed of four persons: Crozier and Carmen, Cadwallader and Inez, standing two and two.

At the last pair De Lara looks not, the first enchaining his attention. Only one short glance he gives them; another to a pistol which hangs holstered on the hip of a gold-digger guarding him.

A spring, and he has possession of it; a bound, and he is off from between the two men, and rushing on towards the group standing apart!

Fortunately for Edward Crozier—for Carmen Montijo as well—there are cries of alarm, shouts of warning, that reach him in time.

He turns on hearing them, sees the approaching danger, and takes measures to avert it. Simple enough these—but the drawing of his revolver, and firing at the man who advances.

Two shots are heard, one on each side, almost simultaneous; but enough apart to decide which of the two who fired must fall.

Crozier's pistol had cracked first; and as the smokes of both swirl up, the gambler is seen astretch upon the sward—the blood spurting from his breast, and spreading over his shirt bosom!

Harry Blew, rushing forward, and bending over him, cries out:

"Dead! Shot through the heart—a brave heart too! What a pity 'twar so black!"

"Come away, mia querida!" says Crozier to Carmen. "Your father will be suffering from anxiety about you. You've had enough of the horrible. Let us hope this is the end of it."

Taking his betrothed by the hand, he leads her down to the boat— Cadwallader and Inez accompanying them.

All seat themselves in the stern-sheets, and wait for the diggers; who soon after appear, conducting their prisoners, the pirate crew of the Condor; short four left behind—a banquet for the caracaras!



CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

A SAILOR'S TRUE YARN.

It is the second day after the tragedy upon the isle, and the Chilian barque has sailed away from the Veraguan coast, out of that indentation known upon modern maps as "Montijo Bay."

She has long since rounded Cabo Mala, and is standing in for the port of Panama. With a full crew—most of them old and able seamen—no fear but she will reach it now.

Crozier in command, has restored Harry Blew to his old rank of first officer; which so far from having forfeited, he is now deemed to doubly deserve. But still weak from his long privation, the ex-man-o'-war's man is excused from duty, Cadwallader doing it for him.

Harry is strong enough, however, to tell the young officers what they are all ears to hear—the story of that Flag of Distress. Their time hitherto taken up attending upon their fiancees, they have deferred calling for the full account, which only the English sailor can give them.

Now having passed Cabo Mala, as if with that promontory of bad repute all evil were left behind, they are in the mood to listen to the narration in all its details; and for this have summoned the chief officer to their side.

"Your honours!" he begins, "it's a twisted-up yarn, from the start to the hour ye hove in sight; an' if ye hadn't showed yerselves just in the nick o' time, an' ta'en the twist out o' it, hard to say how 'twould 'a ended. No doubt, in all o' us dyin' on that desert island, an' layin' our bones there. Thank the Lord, for our delivery—'ithout any disparagement to what's been done by both o' you, young gentlemen. For that He must ha' sent you, an has had a guidin' hand throughout the whole thing, I can't help thinkin', 'specially when I look back on the scores o' chances that seemed goin' against the right, an' still sheered round to it after all."

"True," assents Crozier, honouring the devout faith of the sailor. "You're quite right in ascribing it to Divine interference. Certainly, God's hand seems to have been extended in our favour. But go on!"

"Well, to commence at the beginnin', which is when you left me at San Francisco. As I told Master Willie, that day he comed ashore in the dingy, I war engaged to go chief mate in the Chili barque. She war then a ship; afterward converted as ye see, through our shortness o' hands.

"When I went aboard her, an' for sev'ral days after, I war the only thing in the shape o' sailor she'd got. Then her captain—that poor crazed creetur below—put advertisements in the papers, offering big pay; the which, as I then supposed, brought eleven chaps, callin' themselves sailors, an' shippin' as such. One o' 'em, for want o' a better, war made second mate—his name bein' entered on the books as Padilla. He war the last o' the three swung up, an' if ever man desarved hangin', he did, bein' the cruellest scoundrel o' the lot.

"After we'd waited another day or two, an' no more makin' appearance, the skipper made up his mind to sail. Then the old gentleman, along wi' the two saynoreetas, came aboard; when we cleared an' stood out to sea.

"Afore leavin' port, I had a suspishun about the sort o' crew we'd shipped. But soon's we are fairly afloat, it got to be somethin' worse than suspishun; I war sartin then we'd an ugly lot to deal with. Still, I only believed them to be bad men—an', if that war possible, worse seamen. I expected trouble wi' them in sailin' the vessel; an' a likelihood o' them bein' disobedient. But on the second night after leavin' land, I found out somethin' o' a still darker stripe—that they war neither more nor less than a gang o' piratical conspirators, an' had a plan already laid out. A lucky chance led to me discoverin' their infarnal design. The two we've agreed to let go off—Jack Striker an' Bill Davis—both old birds from the convict gangs o' Australia—war talkin' it over atween themselves, an' I chanced to overhear them. What they sayed made everythin' clear—as it did my hair to stand on eend. Twar a scheme to plunder the ship o' the gold-dust Don Gregorio hed got in her; an' carry off your young ladies. Same time they war to scuttle the vessel, an' sink her; first knockin' the old gentleman on the head, as well as the skipper; whiles your humble sarvint an' the darkey are to be disposed o' same sweet fashion.

"On listenin' to the dyabolikal plot, I war clear dumfoundered, an' for a while didn't know what to do. 'Twar a case o' life an' death to some o' us; an' for the saynoreetas, somethin' worse. At first I thort o' telling Captain Lantanas, an' also Don Gregorio. But then I seed if I shud, that 'twould only make death surer to all as were doomed. I knowed the skipper to be a man o' innocent, unsuspishus nature, an' mightn't gi'e belief to such 'trocious rascality, as bein' a thing possible. More like he'd let out right away, an' bring on the bloody bizness sooner than they intended it. From what Striker and Davis said, I made out that it war to be kept back, till we should sight land near Panyma.

"Well; after a big spell o' thinkin', I seed a sort o' way out of it— the only one appearin' possible. 'Twar this: to purtend joinin' in wi' the conspirators, an' put myself at thar head. I'd larnt from the talk o' the two Sydney Ducks there war a split 'mong them, 'bout the dividin' o' the gold-dust. I seed this would gi'e me a chance to slip in along wi' them. So takin' advantage o' it, I broached the bizness to Striker that same night, and got into his confidence, an' theer councils; arterwards obtaining the influence I wanted.

"Mind, gentlemen, it took a smart show o' trickery and maneuvrin'. 'Mong other things, I had to appear cool to the cabin people throughout all the voyage—specially them two sweet creeturs. Many's the time my heart ached thinkin' o' yourself, Mr Crozier, as also Master Willie— an' then o' your sweethearts, an' what might happen, if I should fail in my plan for protectin' 'em. When they wanted to be free and friendly, an' once began talkin' to me, I hed to answer 'em gruff an' growlin', knowin' that eyes war on me all the while, an' ears listenin'. As to tellin' them what was before, or givin' them the slimmest hint o' it, that would 'a spoilt my plans, an' ruined everything. They'd a gone straight to the old gentleman, an' then it would 'a been all up wi' us. 'Twar clear to me they all couldn't be saved, an' that Don Gregorio himself would hev to be sacrificed, as well as the skipper an' cook. I thought that dreadful hard; but thar war no help for't, as I'd have enough on my hands in takin' care o' the women, without thinkin' o' the men. As the Lord has allowed, an' thank Him for it, all ha'e been saved!"

The speaker pauses, in the fervour of his gratitude; which his listeners, respecting, in silence wait for him to continue the narration. He does so:

"At last, on sightin' land, as agreed on, the day had come for the doin' of the dark deed. It war after night when they set about it, myself actin' as a sort o' recognised leader. I'd played my part, so's to get control o' the rest. We first lowered a boat, putting our things into her. Then we separated, some to get out the gold-dust, others to seize the saynoreetas. I let Gomez look after them, for fear of bringing on trouble too soon. Me an' Davis—who chances to be a sort o' Jack carpenter—were to do the scuttlin'; an', for that purpose, went down into the hold. There I proposed to him to give the doomed ones a chance for their lives, by lettin' the barque float a bit longer. Though he be a convict, he warn't nigh so bad as the rest.

"He consented to my proposal, an' we returned on deck 'ithout tapping the barque's bottom-timbers.

"Soon's I had my head over the hatch coamin', I seed them all below in the boat, the girls along wi' them. I didn't know what they'd done to the Don an' skipper I had my fears about 'em, thinkin' they might ha'e been murdered, as Padilla had proposed. But I darn't go back to the cabin then, lest they might shove off, an' leave us in the lurch: as some war threatenin' to do, more than one wantin' it, I know. If they'd done that—well, it's no use sayin' what might ha' been the upshot. Tharfore, I had to hurry down into the boat. Then, we rowed away; leavin' the barque just as she'd been the whole o' that day.

"As we pulled shoreward, we could see her standing off, all sails set— same as tho' the crew wor abroad o' her workin' 'em."

"But her ensign reversed?" asks Cadwallader. "She was carrying it so, when we came across her. How came that, Harry?"

"Ah! the bit o' buntin' upside-down! I did that myself in the dark; thinkin' it might get them a better chance o' bein' picked up. I'd just time to do it afore droppin' into the boat."

"And you did the very thing!" exclaims Crozier. "I see God's hand in that surely! But for the distress signal, the Crusader would have kept on without giving chase; and—. But, proceed! Tell us what happened afterwards."

"Well; we landed in the island, not knowin' it to be a island. An' theer's another o' the chances, showin' we've been took care o' by the little cherub as sits up aloft. If it hed been the mainland—well, I needn't tell ye, things would now be different. After landin', we stayed all night on the shore; the men sleeping in the biggest o' the caves, while the ladies occupied a smaller one. I took care 'bout that separation myself, detarmined they shouldn't come to no harm.

"That night theer war a thing happened which I dar say they've told you; an' twar from them I afterwards larned that Gomez an' Hernandez war no other than the two chaps you'd trouble wi' at San Francisco. They went into the cave, an' said some insultin' things to the saynoreetas; I warn't 'far off, an' would 'a made short work wi' them, hed it goed farther than talk.

"Well; up at a early hour next mornin', we found the boat had drifted off seaward, an' got bilged on the breakers. But supposin' we shouldn't want her any more, nobody thought anythin' about it. Then comed the dividin' o' the gold-dust, an' after it the great questyun—leastwise, so far as I war consarned—as to who should take away the girls. I'd been waitin' for this, an' for the settlin' o't I war ready to do or die. Gomez an' Hernandez war the two who laid claim to 'em—as I knowed, an' expected they would. Pertendin' a likin' for Miss Carmen myself, an' puttin' Davis up to what I wanted 'bout the tother, we also put in our claim. It ended in Gomez an' me goin' in for a fight; which must 'a tarminated in the death o' one or other o' us. I hed no dread o' dyin'; only from the fear o' its leavin' the saynoreetas unprotected. But thar war no help for't, an' I agreed to the duel, which war to be fought first wi' pistols, an' finished up, if need be, wi' the steel.

"Everythin' settled, we war 'bout settin' to, when one o' the fellows— who'd gone up the cliff to take a look ahead—just then sung out, that we'd landed on a island. Recallin' the lost boat, we knew that meant a dreadful danger. In coorse it stopped the fight, an' we all rushed up to the cliff.

"When we saw how things stood, there war no more talk o' quarrellin'. The piratical scoundrels war scared nigh out o' thar senses; an' would 'a been glad to get back aboard the craft they'd come out o', the which all, 'ceptin' Davis an' myself, supposed to be at the bottom o' the sea.

"After that, 'twar all safe, as far as concarned the saynoreetas. To them as wanted 'em so bad, they war but a second thought, in the face of starvation; which soon tamed the wolves down, an' kep 'em so till the last o' the chapter.

"Now, young gentlemen; ye know how Harry Blew hev behaved, an' can judge for yourselves, whether he's kep the word he gi'ed you 'fore leavin' San Francisco."

"Behaved nobly, grandly!" cries Crozier. "Kept your word like a man: like a true British sailor! Come to my arms—to my heart, Harry! And forgive the suspicions we had, not being able to help them. Here, Will! take him to yours, and show him how grateful we both are, to the man who has done more for us than saving our lives."

"Bless you, Blew! God bless you!" exclaims Cadwallader, promptly responding to the appeal; and holding Harry in a hug that threatens to crush in his ribs.

The affecting scene is followed by an interval of profound silence; broken by the voice of Grummet, who, at the wheel, is steering straight into the port of Panama, now in sight.

"Mr Crozier!" calls out the old coxswain, "do ye see that craft—the one riding at anchor out yonder in the roadstead?"

All three turn their eyes in the direction indicated; soon as they have done so, together exclaiming:

"The Crusader!"

The last incident of our tale takes place at Cadiz, in a grand cathedral church; before the altar of which stand two English naval officers, and alongside each a beautiful Spanish damsel, soon to be his wedded wife.

It scarce needs to tell that the bridegrooms are Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader—both now lieutenants. Nor need we say who are the brides; since they are to be given away by Don Gregorio Montijo.

As little necessary to speak of the ceremonial splendour of that double wedding—long time the novedad of Cadiz.

Enough to say that present at it are all the wealth and fashion of the old Andalusian city, with foreign consuls, and the commanders of warships in the port: conspicuous amongst these, Captain Bracebridge, and the officers of Her Britannic Majesty's frigate Crusader.

Also two other men of the sea—of its merchant service; to hear of whose presence there will, no doubt, make the reader happy, as it does both the brides and the bridegrooms to see them. They belong to a ship lying in the harbour, carrying polacca-masts, on her stern lettered "El Condor;" one of the two being her captain, called Lantanas; the other her chief officer, by name Blew.

God has been just and good to the gentle Chilian skipper, having long since lifted from his mind the cloud that temporarily obscured it. He now knows all, and above all, Harry Blew in his true colours; and, though on the Condor's deck they are still captain and mate, when below by themselves in her cabin, all distinction of rank disappears, and they are affectionate friends—almost as brothers.

In the prosperous trading-craft Condor, re-converted into her original shape of ship—regularly voyaging between Valparaiso and Cadiz, exchanging the gold and silver of Chili for the silks and sweet wines of Spain—but few would recognise a barque once chased over the South Sea, believed to be a spectre; and, it is to be hoped, no one will ever again see her sailing under a Flag of Distress.

THE END