“Vigilancia.”

Without exchanging another word with his escort, Senor Perkins followed him to the main hatch, where they descended and groped their way through the half obscurity of the lower deck.  Here they passed one or two shadows, that, recognizing the Senor, seemed to draw aside in a half awed, half suppressed shyness, as of caged animals in the presence of their trainer.  At the fore-hatch they again descended, passing a figure that appeared to be keeping watch at the foot of the ladder, and almost instantly came upon a group lit up by the glare of a bull’s-eye lantern.  It was composed of the first and second mate, a vicious-looking Peruvian sailor with a bandaged head, and, to the Senor’s astonishment, the missing passenger Hurlstone, seated on the deck, heavily ironed.

“Tell him what you know, Pedro,” said the first mate to the Peruvian sailor curtly.

“It was just daybreak, Patrono, before we put about,” began the man in Spanish, “that I thought I saw some one gliding along towards the fore-hatch; but I lost sight of him.  After we had tumbled up to go on the other tack, I heard a noise in the fore-hold.  I went down and found him,” pointing to Hurlstone, “hiding there.  He had some provisions stowed away beside him, and that package.  I grabbed him, Patrono.  He broke away and struck me here” ­he pointed to his still wet bandage ­“and would have got out overboard through the port, but the second mate heard the row and came down just in time to stop him.”

“When was this?” asked Senor Perkins.

“Guardia di Diana.”

“You were chattering, you fellows.”

“Quien sabe?” said the Peruvian, lifting his shoulders.

“How does he explain himself?”

“He refuses to speak.”

“Take off his irons,” said Senor Perkins, in English.

“But” ­expostulated the first mate, with a warning gesture.

“I said ­take off his irons,” repeated Senor Perkins in a dry and unfamiliar voice.

The two mates released the shackles.  The prisoner raised his eyes to Senor Perkins.  He was a slightly built man of about thirty, fair-haired and hollow-cheeked.  His short upper lip was lifted over his teeth, as if from hurried or labored breathing; but his features were regular and determined, and his large blue eyes shone with a strange abstraction of courage and fatuity.

“That will do,” continued the Senor, in the same tone.  “Now leave him with me.”

The two mates looked at each other, and hesitated; but at a glance from Perkins, turned, and ascended the ladder again.  The Peruvian alone remained.

“Go!” said the Senor sharply.

The man cast a vindictive look at the prisoner and retreated sullenly.

“Did he tell you,” said the prisoner, looking after the sailor grimly, “that I tried to bribe him to let me go, but that I couldn’t reach his figure?  He wanted too much.  He thought I had some stolen money or valuables here,” he added, with a bitter laugh, pointing to the package that lay beside him.

“And you hadn’t?” said Perkins shortly.

“No.”

“I believe you.  And now, my young friend,” said Perkins, with a singular return of his beaming gentleness, “since those two efficient and competent officers and this energetic but discourteous seaman are gone, would you mind telling me what you were hiding for?”

The prisoner raised his eyes on his questioner.  For the last three weeks he had lived in the small community of which the Senor was a prominent member, but he scarcely recognized him now.

“What if I refuse?” he said.

The Senor shrugged his shoulders.

“Those two excellent men would feel it their duty to bring the Peruvian to the captain, and I should be called to interpret to him.”

“And I should throw myself overboard the first chance I got.  I would have done so ten minutes ago, but the mate stopped me.”

His eye glistened with the same fatuous determination he had shown at first.  There was no doubt he would do as he said.

“I believe you would,” said the Senor benevolently; “but I see no present necessity for that, nor for any trouble whatever, if you will kindly tell me what I am to say.”

The young man’s eyes fell.

“I did try to conceal myself in the hold,” he said bluntly.  “I intended to remain there hidden while the ship was at Mazatlan.  I did not know until now that the vessel had changed her course.”

“And how did you believe your absence would be accounted for?” asked the Senor blandly.

“I thought it would be supposed that I had fallen overboard before we entered Mazatlan.”

“So that anybody seeking you there would not find you, and you would be believed to be dead?”

“Yes.”  He raised his eyes quickly to Senor Perkins again.  “I am neither a thief nor a murderer,” he said almost savagely, “but I do not choose to be recognized by any one who knows me on this side of the grave.”

Senor Perkins’ eyes sought his, and for an instant seemed to burn through the singular, fatuous mist that veiled them.

“My friend,” he said cheerfully, after a moment’s pause, “you have just had a providential escape.  I repeat it ­a most providential escape.  Indeed, if I were inclined to prophesy, I would say you were a man reserved for some special good fortune.”

The prisoner stared at him with angry amazement.

“You are a confirmed somnambulist.  Excuse me,” continued the Senor, with a soft, deprecating gesture; “you are, of course, unaware of it ­most victims of that singular complaint are, or at least fail to recognize the extent of their aberration.  In your case it has only been indicated by a profound melancholy and natural shunning of society.  In a paroxysm of your disorder, you rise in the night, fully dress yourself, and glide as unconsciously along the deck in pursuance of some vague fancy.  You pass the honest but energetic sailor who has just left us, who thinks you are a phantom, and fails to give the alarm; you are precipitated by a lurch of the ship through an open hatchway:  the shock renders you insensible until you are discovered and restored.”

“And who will believe this pretty story?” said the young man scornfully.

“The honest sailor who picked you up, who has related it in his own picturesque tongue to me, who will in turn interpret it to the captain and the other passengers,” replied Senor Perkins blandly.

“And what of the two mates who were here?” said the prisoner hesitatingly.

“They are two competent officers, who are quite content to carry out the orders of their superiors, and who understand their duty too well to interfere with the reports of their subordinates, on which these orders are based.  Mr. Brooks, the first officer, though fairly intelligent and a good reader of history, is only imperfectly acquainted with the languages, and Mr. M’Carthy’s knowledge of Spanish is confined to a few objurgations which generally preclude extended conversation.”

“And who are you,” said Hurlstone, more calmly, “who are willing to do this for a stranger?”

“A friend ­equally of yours, the captain’s, and the other passengers’,” replied Senor Perkins pleasantly.  “A man who believes you, my dear sir, and, even if he did not, sees no reason to interrupt the harmony that has obtained in our little community during our delightful passage.  Were any scandal to occur, were you to carry out your idea of throwing yourself overboard, it would, to say nothing of my personal regret, produce a discord for which there is no necessity, and from which no personal good can be derived.  Here at least your secret is secure, for even I do not ask what it is; we meet here on an equality, based on our own conduct and courtesy to each other, limited by no antecedent prejudice, and restrained by no thought of the future.  In a little while we shall be separated ­why should it not be as friends?  Why should we not look back upon our little world of this ship as a happy one?”

Hurlstone gazed at the speaker with a troubled air.  It was once more the quaint benevolent figure whom he had vaguely noted among the other passengers, and as vaguely despised.  He hesitated a moment, and then, half timidly, half reservedly, extended his hand.

“I thank you,” he said, “at least for not asking my secret.  Perhaps, if it was only” ­

“Your own ­you might tell it,” interrupted the Senor, gayly.  “I understand.  I see you recognize my principle.  There is no necessity of your putting yourself to that pain, or another to that risk.  And now, my young friend, time presses.  I must say a word to our friends above, who are waiting, and I shall see that you are taken privately to your state-room while most of the other passengers are still on deck.  If you would permit yourself the weakness of allowing the steward to carry or assist you it would be better.  Let me advise you that the excitement of the last three hours has not left you in your full strength.  You must really give me the pleasure of spreading the glad tidings of your safety among the passengers, who have been so terribly alarmed.”

“They will undoubtedly be relieved,” said Hurlstone, with ironical bitterness.

“You wrong them,” returned the Senor, with gentle reproach; “especially the ladies.”

The voice of the first mate from above here checked his further speech, and, perhaps, prevented him, as he quickly reascended the upper deck, from noticing the slight embarrassment of his prisoner.

The Senor’s explanations to the mate were evidently explicit and brief.  In a few moments he reappeared with the steward and his assistant.

“Lean on these men,” he said to Hurlstone significantly, “and do not overestimate your strength.  Thank Heaven, no bones are broken, and you are only bruised by the fall.  With a little rest, I think we can get along without laying the captain’s medicine-chest under contribution.  Our kind friend Mr. Brooks has had the lower deck cleared, so that you may gain your state-room without alarming the passengers or fatiguing yourself.”

He pressed Hurlstone’s hand as the latter resigned himself to the steward, and was half led, half supported, through the gloom of the lower deck.  Senor Perkins remained for an instant gazing after him with even more than his usual benevolence.  Suddenly his arm was touched almost rudely.  He turned, and encountered the lowering eyes of the Peruvian sailor.

“And what is to be done for me?” said the man roughly, in Spanish.

“You?”

“Yes.  Who’s to pay for this?” he pointed to his bandaged head.

Without changing his bland expression, Senor Perkins apparently allowed his soft black eyes to rest, as if fondly, on the angry pupils of the Peruvian.  The eyes of the latter presently sought the ground.

“My dear Yoto,” said Senor Perkins softly, “I scarcely think that this question of personal damage can be referred to the State.  I will, however, look into it.  Meantime, let me advise you to control your enthusiasm.  Too much zeal in a subordinate is even more fatal than laxity.  For the rest, son, be vigilant ­and peaceful.  Thou hast meant well, much shall be ­forgiven thee.  For the present, vamos!”

He turned on his heel, and ascended to the upper deck.  Here he found the passengers thrilling with a vague excitement.  A few brief orders, a few briefer explanations, dropped by the officers, had already whetted curiosity to the keenest point.  The Senor was instantly beset with interrogations.  Gentle, compassionate, with well-rounded periods, he related the singular accident that had befallen Mr. Hurlstone, and his providential escape from almost certain death.  “At the most, he has now only the exhaustion of the shock, from which a day of perfect rest will recover him; but,” he added deprecatingly, “at present he ought not to be disturbed or excited.”

The story was received by those fellow-passengers who had been strongest in their suspicions of Hurlstone’s suicide or flight, with a keen sense of discomfiture, only mitigated by a humorous perception of the cause of the accident.  It was agreed that a man whose ludicrous infirmity had been the cause of putting the ship out of her course, and the passengers out of their comfortable security, could not be wronged by attributing to him manlier and more criminal motives.  A somnambulist on shipboard was clearly a humorous object, who might, however, become a bore.  “It all accounts for his being so deuced quiet and reserved in the daytime,” said Crosby facetiously; “he couldn’t keep it up the whole twenty-four hours.  If he’d only given us a little more of his company when he was awake, he wouldn’t have gallivanted round at night, and we’d have been thirty miles nearer port.”  Equal amusement was created by the humorous suggestion that the unfortunate man had never been entirely awake during the voyage, and that he would now, probably for the first time, really make the acquaintance of his fellow-voyagers.  Listening to this badinage with bland tolerance, Senor Perkins no doubt felt that, for the maintenance of that perfect amity he so ardently apostrophized, it was just as well that Hurlstone was in his state-room, and out of hearing.

He would have been more satisfied, however, had he been permitted to hear the feminine comments on this incident.  In the eyes of the lady passengers Mr. Hurlstone was more a hero than ever; his mysterious malady invested him with a vague and spiritual interest; his escape from the awful fate reserved to him, in their excited fancy, gave him the eclat of having actually survived it; while the supposed real incident of his fall through the hatchway lent him the additional lustre of a wounded and crippled man.  That prostrate condition of active humanity, which so irresistibly appeals to the feminine imagination as segregating their victim from the distractions of his own sex, and, as it were, delivering him helpless into their hands, was at once their opportunity, and his.  All the ladies volunteered to nurse him; it was with difficulty that Mrs. Brimmer and Mrs. Markham, reinforced with bandages, flannels, and liniments, and supported by different theories, could be kept from the door of his state-room.  Jellies, potted meats, and delicacies from their private stores appeared on trays at his bedside, to be courteously declined by the Senor Perkins, in his new functions of a benevolent type of Sancho Panza physician.  To say that this pleased the gentle optimism of the Senor is unnecessary.  Even while his companion writhed under the sting of this enforced compassion, the good man beamed philosophically upon him.

“Take care, or I shall end this cursed farce in my own way,” said Hurlstone ominously, his eyes again filming with a vague desperation.

“My dear boy,” returned the Senor gently, “reflect upon the situation.  Your suffering, real or implied, produces in the hearts of these gentle creatures a sympathy which not only exalts and sustains their higher natures, but, I conscientiously believe, gratifies and pleases their lower ones.  Why should you deny them this opportunity of indulging their twofold organisms, and beguiling the tedium of the voyage, merely because of some erroneous exhibition of fact?”

Later, Senor Perkins might have added to this exposition the singularly stimulating effect which Hurlstone’s supposed peculiarity had upon the feminine imagination.  But there were some secrets which were not imparted even to him, and it was only to each other that the ladies confided certain details and reminiscences.  For it now appeared that they had all heard strange noises and stealthy steps at night; and Mrs. Brimmer was quite sure that on one occasion the handle of her state-room door was softly turned.  Mrs. Markham also remembered distinctly that only a week before, being unable to sleep, she had ventured out into the saloon in a dressing-gown to get her diary, which she had left with a portfolio on a chair; that she had a sudden consciousness of another presence in the saloon, although she could distinguish nothing by the dim light of the swinging lantern; and that, after quickly returning to her room, she was quite positive she heard a door close.  But the most surprising reminiscence developed by the late incident was from Mrs. Brimmer’s nurse, Susan.  As it, apparently, demonstrated the fact that Mr. Hurlstone not only walked but talked in his sleep, it possessed a more mysterious significance.  It seemed that Susan was awakened one night by the sound of voices, and, opening her door softly, saw a figure which she at first supposed to be the Senor Perkins, but which she now was satisfied was poor Mr. Hurlstone.  As there was no one else to be seen, the voices must have proceeded from that single figure; and being in a strange and unknown tongue, were inexpressibly weird and awful.  When pressed to remember what was said, she could only distinguish one word ­a woman’s name ­Virgil ­Vigil ­no:  Virginescia!

“It must have been one of those creatures at Callao, whose pictures you can buy for ten cents,” said Mrs. Brimmer.

“If it is one of them, Susan must have made a mistake in the first two syllables of the name,” said Mrs. Markham grimly.

“But surely, Miss Keene,” said Miss Chubb, turning to that young lady, who had taken only the part of a passive listener to this colloquy, and was gazing over the railing at the sinking sun, “surely you can tell us something about this poor young man.  If I don’t mistake, you are the only person he ever honored with his conversation.”

“And only once, I think,” said the young girl, slightly coloring.  “He happened to be sitting next to me on deck, and I believe he spoke only out of politeness.  At least, he seemed very quiet and reserved, and talked on general topics, and I thought very intelligently.  I ­should have thought ­I mean,” she continued hesitatingly ­“I thought he was an educated gentleman.”

“That isn’t at all inconsistent with photographs or sleep-walking,” said Mrs. Brimmer, with one of her vague simplicities.  “Uncle Quincey brought home a whole sheaf of those women whom he said he’d met; and one of my cousins, who was educated at Heidelberg, used to walk in his sleep, as it were, all over Europe.”

“Did you notice anything queer in his eyes, Miss Keene?” asked Miss Chubb vivaciously.

Miss Keene had noticed that his eyes were his best feature, albeit somewhat abstracted and melancholy; but, for some vague reason she could not explain herself, she answered hurriedly that she had seen nothing very particular in them.

“Well,” said Mrs. Markham positively, “when he’s able to be out again, I shall consider it my duty to look him up, and try to keep him sufficiently awake in the daytime to ensure his resting better at night.”

“No one can do it, dear Mrs. Markham, better than you; and no one would think of misunderstanding your motives,” said Mrs. Brimmer sweetly.  “But it’s getting late, and the air seems to be ever so much colder.  Captain Bunker says it’s because we are really nearing the Californian coast.  It seems so odd!  Mr. Brimmer wrote to me that it was so hot in Sacramento that you could do something with eggs in the sun ­I forget what.”

“Hatch them?” suggested Miss Chubb.

“I think so,” returned Mrs. Brimmer, rising.  “Let us go below.”

The three ladies rustled away, but Miss Keene, throwing a wrap around her shoulders, lingered by the railing.  With one little hand supporting her round chin, she leaned over the darkly heaving water.  She was thinking of her brief and only interview with that lonely man whose name was now in everybody’s mouth, but who, until to-day, had been passed over by them with an unconcern equal to his own.  And yet to her refined and delicately feminine taste there appeared no reason why he should not have mingled with his fellows, and have accepted the homage from them that she was instinctively ready to give.  He seemed to her like a gentleman ­and something more.  In her limited but joyous knowledge of the world ­a knowledge gathered in the happy school-life of an orphan who but faintly remembered and never missed a parent’s care ­she knew nothing of the mysterious dominance of passion, suffering, or experience in fashioning the outward expression of men, and saw only that Mr. Hurlstone was unlike any other.  That unlikeness was fascinating.  He had said very little to her in that very brief period.  He had not talked to her with the general gallantry which she already knew her prettiness elicited.  Without knowing why, she felt there was a subtle flattery in his tacit recognition of that other self of which she, as yet, knew so little.  She could not remember what they had talked about ­nor why.  Nor was she offended that he had never spoken to her since, nor gone beyond a grave lifting of his hat to her when he passed.