Of course, Terrence Malone had played a practical joke on the English lieutenant, and while the latter was passing the night on the gloomiest island of all the Maryland coast, the former was sweetly dreaming of dear old Ireland, in the most comfortable bed the tavern afforded. Next morning the captain of the Xenophon sent ashore for Lieutenant Matson to come aboard, as they were about to hoist anchor. Terrence, Fernando and Sukey were just going aboard the schooner as the messenger came. Fernando had passed the most miserable night of his existence, and now, pale and melancholy, went aboard the schooner utterly unconscious of the fact that some one was watching him through a glass from the big house on the hill.

Terrence was as jolly as usual and had almost forgotten the lieutenant. Just as the schooner was about to sail, ensign Post came aboard and asked for Mr. Malone. Terrence was sitting aft the main cabin smoking a cigar, when the ensign, approaching, asked:

“Where is Lieutenant Matson? I was told he went shooting with you last evening.”

“Sure he did. You will find him on Duck Island enjoying the sport I’ve no doubt. Faith, I had almost forgotten to tell ye to touch at the island and take him off, as ye sailed out of the harbor.”

The ensign looked puzzled at this and said:

“This is strange, this is certainly very extraordinary! Would he stay on the island all night?”

Terrence assured him that the lieutenant was a great sport and that the best shooting was just before day. The Englishman returned to his boat and was rowed to the man-of-war to report, while the schooner weighed anchor and sailed out of the harbor. The Xenophon followed two hours later, having first sent a boat to Duck Island for the lieutenant, who swore to shoot the Irishman at sight. There was no time for him to call on Morgianna and explain why he had not brought her the ducks, for soon after his arrival the ship departed for Halifax, where the commander had to give an account of his conduct at Baltimore.

Meanwhile, the schooner on which the three students had taken passage stood out to sea and started down the coast.

A strong breeze blowing from off land swept her out of sight of the coast, when the wind suddenly shifted, until the skipper declared they had it right in their teeth, and, despite all the skill of master and crew, the vessel continued to drift farther out to sea, while Sukey once more bewailed his fate at risking his life on the water.

“Don’t count me in this game again,” he groaned. “If I live to get on shore, I’ll never risk myself on water broader than the Ohio.”

With such headwinds, the schooner could not possibly reach Baltimore that night. All night long she struggled first on one tack and then on the other, and at dawn only the blue mist, seen like a fog in the West, marked the line of the Maryland coast.

“Don’t be discouraged, lads,” said the skipper cheerfully. “Come down to breakfast, and afore night I’ll have ye snug in port.”

They went to breakfast, and when they returned found the master and three seamen in the forecastle holding a very earnest conversation. The fourth sailor was at the wheel. Fernando, glancing off to their larboard saw a large ship, flying English colors, bearing down upon them, and he had no doubt that this vessel was the subject of discussion.

She signalled to the schooner to heave to, and as they were within range of her powerful guns, the skipper was forced to obey. This vessel was the English frigate Macedonian cruising along the American coast, and at this time short of hands. In a few moments, the frigate came near and hove to, while a boat with a dozen marines and an officer came alongside the schooner.

“What is your business?” asked the skipper.

“We are looking for deserters and Englishmen.”

“Well, here are my crew,” said the skipper pointing to his sailors. “Every one I will swear is American born!”

“But who are these young men?”

“Three passengers I am taking to Baltimore.”

The three students began to entertain some grave apprehensions. Terrence for once was quiet. His dialect he knew would betray him, and when he was asked where he lived and where he was from, he tried hard to conceal his brogue; but it was in vain.

Sukey came forward and tried to explain matters, but only made them worse. The result was that all three were in a short hour transported to the Macedonian in irons. Protest was useless; the Macedonian was short of hands and they were forced to go.

They were not even permitted to write letters home. However, the skipper had their names, and the whole affair was printed in the Baltimore Sun, and copies were sent to the parents of the young men.

Captain Snipes of the English frigate was one of those barbarous, tyrannical sea captains, more brute than human, and, in an age when the strict discipline of the navy permitted tyranny to exist, he became a monster.

The three recruits were added to his muster-roll and gradually initiated into the mysteries of sailor’s life on a war vessel.

Poor Sukey for several days was fearfully seasick; but he recovered and was assigned to his mess. Fortunately they were all three assigned to the same mess. The common seamen of the Macedonian were divided into thirty-seven messes, put down on the purser’s book as Mess N, Mess N, Mess N. The members of each mess clubbed their rations of provisions, and breakfasted, dined and supped together at allotted intervals between the guns on the main deck.

They found that living on board the Macedonian was like living in a market, where one dresses on the door-step and sleeps in the cellar. They could have no privacy, hardly a moment seclusion. In fact, it was almost a physical impossibility ever to be alone. The three impressed Americans dined at a vast table d’hôte, slept in commons and made their toilet when and where they could. Their clothes were stowed in a large canvas bag, painted black, which they could get out of the “rack” only once in twenty-four hours, and then during a time of utmost confusion, among three hundred and fifty other sailors, each diving into his bag, in the midst of the twilight of the berth-deck.

Terrence, in order to obviate in a measure this inconvenience, suggested that they divide their wardrobes between their hammocks and their bags, stowing their few frocks and trowsers in the former, so that they could change at night when the hammocks were piped down. They knew not whither they were bound, and they cared little about the object of the voyage.

“How are we to get out of this any way?” asked Sukey one day, when the three were together for a moment.

“Lave it all to me!” said Terrence.

“I am perfectly willing to leave it all to you, Terrence. Do just as you will, so you get me on shore.”

Before they had been a month on the ship, they chased a French merchantman for twenty-four hours, and at times were near enough to fire a few shots with their long bow-chaser; but a fresh breeze sprang up, quickly increased to a gale, and the Frenchman escaped.

This was the nearest approach to a naval engagement they experienced during their stay on the war frigate. They cruised along the coast of Ireland and Scotland, went to Spain, entered the waters of the Mediterranean for a few weeks, and then returned to the Atlantic, sailing for the West Indies.

Not only were the officers of the Macedonian brutal; but the crew was made up of a motley class of human beings of every class of viciousness and brutality.

“Now boys, if ye want to kape out of trouble,” said Terrence, “do’nt ye get into any fights with thim divils, or ye’ll be brought up to the quarter-deck and flogged.”

His advice was appreciated, and both Fernando and Sukey did their best to avoid trouble with any of their quarrelsome neighbors. They submitted to insults innumerable; but at last Sukey was one morning assailed by a brutal sailor whom he knocked down. Two other sailors were guilty of a similar offence, and all four were put under arrest. Fernando was shocked and alarmed for his friend, and hastened to ascertain the facts concerning the charge.

“I couldn’t help it,” declared Sukey, whom he found in irons. “Plague take him! he hit me twice before I knocked him down. I didn’t want to be in the game.”

The culprits could expect nothing but a flogging at the captain’s pleasure. Toward evening of the next day, they were startled by the dread summons of the boatswain and his mates at the principal hatchway, a summons that sent a shudder through every manly heart in the frigate:

“All hands witness punishment, ahoy!”

The hoarseness of the cry, its unrelenting prolongation, it being caught up at different points and sent to the lowest depths of the ship, produced a most dismal effect upon every heart not calloused by long familiarity with it. However much Fernando desired to absent himself from the scene that ensued, behold it he must; or, at least, stand near it he must; for the regulations compelled the attendance of the entire ship’s company, from the captain himself to the smallest boy who struck the bell.

At the summons, the crew crowded round the mainmast. Many, eager to obtain a good place, got on the booms to overlook the scene. Some were laughing and chatting, others canvassing the case of the culprits. Some maintaining sad, anxious countenance, or carrying a suppressed indignation in their eyes. A few purposely kept behind, to avoid looking on. In short, among three or four hundred men, there was every possible shade of character. All the officers, midshipmen included, stood together in a group on the starboard side of the mainmast. The first lieutenant was a little in advance, and the surgeon, whose special duty it was to be present at such times, stood close at his side. Presently the captain came forward from his cabin and took his place in the centre of the group, with a small paper in his hand. That paper was the daily report of offenses, regularly laid upon his table every morning or evening.

“Master-at-arms, bring up the prisoners,” he said. A few moments elapsed, during which the captain, now clothed in his most dreadful attributes, fixed his eyes severely upon the crew, when suddenly a lane formed through the crowd of seamen, and the prisoners advanced the master-at-arms, rattan in hand, on one side, and an armed marine on the other, and took up their stations at the mast.

“You, John, you, Richard, (Richard was Sukey) you Mark, you Antone,” said the captain, “were yesterday found fighting on the gun-deck. Have you any thing to say?”

Mark and Antone, two steady, middle-aged men, who had been admired for their sobriety, replied that they did not strike the first blow; they had submitted to much before they yielded to their passions; but as they acknowledged that they had at last defended themselves their excuse was overruled. John a brutal bully, who in fact was the real author of the disturbance was about entering into a long harangue, when the captain cut him short, and made him confess, irrespective of circumstances, that he had been in the fray. Poor Sukey, the youngest and handsomest of the four, was pale and tremulous. He had already won the good will and esteem of many in the ship. That morning Fernando and Terrence had gone to his bag, taken out his best clothes and, obtaining the permission of the marine sentry at the “brig,” had handed them to him, to be put on before he was summoned to the mast. This was done to propitiate Captain Snipes, who liked to see a tidy sailor; but it was all in vain. To all the young American’s supplications, Captain Snipes turned a deaf ear. Sukey declared he had been struck twice before he had returned a blow.

“No matter,” cried the captain, angrily, “you struck at last, instead of reporting the case to an officer. I allow no man to fight on this ship but myself. I do the fighting. Now, men,” he added fixing his dark stern eye on them, “you all admit the charge; you know the penalty. Strip! Quartermaster, are the gratings rigged?”

The gratings were square frames of barred woodwork, sometimes placed over the hatches. One of these squares was now laid on the deck, close to the ship’s bulwarks, and while the remaining preparations were being made, the master-at-arms assisted the prisoners to remove their jackets and shirts. This done, their shirts were loosely thrown over their shoulders as a partial protection from the keen breeze, until their turn should come.

At a sign from the captain, John, with a shameless leer, stepped forward and stood passively on the grating, while the bareheaded old quarter-master, with his gray hair streaming in the wind, bound his feet to the cross-bars and, stretching out his arms over his head, secured them to the hammock netting above. He then retreated a little space, standing silent. Meanwhile, the boatswain stood solemnly on the other side with a green bag in his hand. From this he took four instruments of punishment and gave one to each of his mates; for a fresh “cat,” applied by a fresh hand, was the ceremonious privilege accorded to every man-of-war culprit. Through all that terrible scene, Fernando Stevens stood transfixed with horror, indignation and a thousand bitter, indescribable feelings. At another sign from the captain, the master-at-arms, stepping up, removed the shirt from the prisoner. At this juncture, a wave broke against the ship’s side and dashed the spray over the man’s exposed back; but, though the air was piercing cold, and the water drenched him, John stood still without a shudder.

Captain Snipes lifted his finger, and the first boatswain’s-mate advanced, combing out the nine tails of his “cat” with his fingers, and then, sweeping them round his neck, brought them with the whole force of his body upon the mark. Again, and again, and again; at every blow, higher and higher and higher rose the long purple bars on the prisoner’s back; but he only bowed his head and stood still. A whispered murmur of applause at their shipmate’s nerve went round among the sailors. One dozen blows were administered on his bare back, and then he was taken down and went among his messmates, swearing:

“It’s nothing, after you get used to it.”

Antone, who was a Portuguese, was next, and he howled and swore at every blow, though he had never been known to blaspheme before. Mark, the third, was in the first stage of consumption and coughed and cringed during the flogging. At about the sixth blow he bowed his head and cried: “Oh! Jesus Christ!” but whether it was in blasphemy or supplication no one could determine. He was taken with a fever a few days later and died before the cruise was over, as much perhaps of mortification as from the inroads of the disease.

The, fourth was poor Sukey. When told to advance, he made one more appeal to the captain, avowing that he was an American. The captain, with an oath, said that was the more reason for flogging him. He appealed until the marine guard was ordered to prod him with his bayonet. They had to actually drag Sukey to the gratings. Sukey’s cheek, which was usually pale, was now whiter than a ghost. As he was being secured to the gratings, and the shudderings and creepings of his dazzling white back were revealed, he turned his tear-stained face to the captain and implored him to spare him the disgrace, which he felt far more keenly than the pain.

“I would not forgive God Almighty!” cried the brutal captain. The fourth boatswain’s mate, with a fresh cat-o-nine-tails swung it about his head and brought the terrible scourge hissing and crackling on the young and tender back. Fernando turned his face away and wept.

“My God! oh! my God!” shouted Sukey, and he writhed and leaped, until he displaced the gratings, scattering the nine-tails of the scourge all over his person. At the next blow, he howled, leaped and raged in unendurable agony.

“What the d –­l are you stopping for?” cried the captain as the boatswain’s-mate halted. “Lay on!” and the whole dozen were applied, though poor Sukey fainted at the tenth stroke.

Reader, this was on an English war vessel, the vessel of a nation professing a high state of civilization. We blush to say it, it was no better on an American man-of-war, if nautical writers of high authority are to be believed, and, even to-day, the brute often holds a commission in the American army and navy. Although flogging is of the past, punishment equally severe is inflicted. The necessities of discipline are taken advantage of by men without hearts. An American naval officer in Washington City told the author that it was a common thing for officers on an American man-of-war to swing the hammock of the sailor or middy whom they disliked, where he would have all the damp and cold, ending in consumption and death. If this be true, it is far more brutal than flogging. Congressional investigations are usually farces. Congressmen place their friends in the army and navy, and their investigations usually result in the triumph of their friends.

For several days, Sukey was too ill to leave his hammock. “I don’t want to get well,” the poor boy said. “I want to die. I never want to see home or mother again after that.”

“Faith, me lad, live but to kill the d –­d captain,” suggested Terrence.

“I would live a thousand years to do that.”

There was a negro named Job on the vessel, who was a cook. He early formed a liking for the three. He stole the choicest dainties from the officers’ table for the sick youth.

“I ain’t no Britisher,” he declared. “Dar ain’t no Angler Saxon blood in dese veins, honey, an’ I thank de good Lawd for dat. I know what it am to be flogged. Golly, dey flog dis chile twice already. Nex’ time, I spect dat sumfin’ am a-gwine to happen.”

“When and where were you impressed?” Fernando asked.

“I war wid Cap’n Parson on de Dover, den de Sea Wing came, an’ de leftenant swear dis chile am a Britisher, and he tuk me away. Den me an’ Massa St. Mark, de gunner, were transferred to de Macedonian.”

Sukey was sullen and melancholy. A few days after he was on duty, he breathed a threat against Captain Snipes. A tall, fine-looking sailor, who was known as the chief gunner, said:

“Young man, keep your thoughts to yourself. For heaven’s sake, don’t let the officers hear them!”

They were now in the vicinity of the West Indies and touched at Barbadoes. While lying here, Fernando witnessed another act of British cruelty. Tom Boseley, an American who had been impressed into the service of Great Britain deserted, but was pursued and brought back. He was flogged and, on being released struck the captain, knocking him down. For this act, he was tried by a “drumhead court martial” and sentenced to die. Tom had a wife and children in New York, but was not permitted to write to them. Only one prayer was granted, and that was that he might be shot instead of hung, and thrown into the sea.

Fernando, almost at the risk of his own life, visited Boseley the night before his execution. He seemed indifferent to his fate, declaring it preferable to service on an English war ship. “I would rather die a free man, than live a slave,” he declared. Fernando asked if he would not rather live for his family.

“Oh! Stevens, say nothing about my family to-night!”

He then requested him to take possession of some letters he would try to write and, if possible, send them. Fernando said he would do so, and he then asked him to remain with him through the night. This Fernando declared was impossible. The young American was greatly weighed down by the terrible mental strain the whole affair had produced, and he had double duty to screen the unfortunate Sukey.

“Won’t you be with me when it is done?” Boseley asked. Money would not have tempted him to witness that sight; but he could not refuse the dying request. He visited him early next morning and found him dressed in the best clothes his poor wardrobe could afford, a white shirt and black cravat. He was a fine-looking man in features as well as stature. As Fernando gazed on him he thought, “Dressed for eternity!”

The doomed man gave him three letters, which Fernando secreted about his person and subsequently sent to their destination. Twelve marines were drawn as executioners. Four muskets were loaded with balls and eight with blank cartridges. Then the party went ashore. Boseley bore up well until the woods were reached, where he found an open grave. According to promise, Fernando went with him. Captain Snipes accompanied the sergeant of the marines to see that the prisoner was properly executed. He still stung under the blow he had received, and Boseley was slain more to gratify the vengeance of the captain than for any violated law. A number of Boseley’s shipmates were permitted to come and witness the terrible scene.

The captain said to Boseley:

“What is your distance?”

“Twelve steps.”

“Step off your ground,” added the captain.

“I cannot do it; you do it for me.”

“I will do it with you.”

The prisoner’s hands were tied behind his back, and the captain, taking his arm, walked him off twelve steps, as coolly as if they were only pacing the quarter-deck. The captain then took a blanket, spread it on the ground and told Boseley to kneel on it, and he did so, facing his executioners. The ship’s chaplain came and offered a prayer, after which the sergeant asked Boseley if he wished to have his eyes bandaged.

“No; I am not afraid to face my executioners,” he answered. It was an intensely solemn occasion, and among all those hardy, rough-mannered sailors, there was not one, unless it was Captain Snipes, who was not deeply affected. The captain’s face was flushed, and his breath was strong with brandy, and he seemed but little moved.

“Go ahead, and have this done with,” he said to the officer in charge of the affair.

“Are you quite ready now?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes,” was the answer in a faltering tone.

“Make ready!” and the twelve glittering muskets were leveled at this sacrifice to the wrath of Captain Snipes.

“Take aim!” and the gunners steadied themselves for the fatal word, to send a fellow being to eternity.

“Fire!” and instantly flashed a volley, reverberating a wild and unearthly death knell among the crags that looked down upon that awful scene. In the clear morning air, the smoke of the guns curled up lazily and hung like a funeral pall over the mangled, bleeding form. Four bullets had pierced his body. He fell on his face and lay motionless for a few seconds. Then he began to slowly raise his head. Fernando came near and stood in front of him. Ten thousand years could not efface that scene from his mind. He continued to raise his head and body without a struggle. He looked the captain in the eye, and his mouth was in motion as though he were trying to speak, to utter some dying accusation. Never did human eye behold a scene so pitiful as this dying man gazing on his destroyer, gasping to implore or to denounce him. In an instant a dimness came over his eyes, and he fell dead.

“Oh, Heaven!” groaned Fernando, and he hurried away to the ship. For weeks, he saw that awful face every time he closed his eyes to sleep.

Two years on board the British frigate had made Fernando, Sukey and Terrence tolerably fair sailors. Their hearts were never in the work, and they often dreamed of escape from this life of slavery. Fernando, by judicious attention to business, had never yet won the positive displeasure of the officers. One day the boatswain’s mates repeated the commands at the hatchways:

“All hands tack ship, ahoy!”

It was just eight bells, noon, and, springing from his jacket, which he had spread between the guns for a bed on the main deck, Fernando ran up the ladders, and, as usual, seized hold of the main-brace which fifty hands were streaming along forward. When “maintopsail haul!” was given through the trumpet, he pulled at this brace with such heartiness and good will, that he flattered himself he would gain the approval of the grim captain himself; but something happened to be in the way aloft, when the yards swung round, and a little confusion ensued. With anger on his brow. Captain Snipes came forward to see what occasioned it. No one to let go the weather-lift of the main-yard. The rope was cast off, however, by a hand, and, the yards, unobstructed, came round. When the last rope was coiled away, the captain asked the first lieutenant who it might be that was stationed at the weather (then the starboard) main-lift. With a vexed expression of countenance, the first lieutenant sent a midshipman for the station bill, when, upon glancing it over, the name of Fernando Stevens was found set down at the post in question. At the time, Fernando was on the gundeck below, and did not know of these proceedings; but a moment after, he heard the boatswain’s-mates bawling his name at all the hatchways and along all three decks. It was the first time he had ever heard it sent through the furthest recesses of the ship, and, well knowing what this generally betokened to other seamen, his heart jumped to his throat, and he hurriedly asked Brown, the boatswain’s-mate at the fore-hatchway, what was wanted of him.

“Captain wants ye at the mast,” he answered. “Going to flog ye, I fancy.”

“What for?”

“My eyes! you’ve been chalking your face, hain’t ye?”

“What am I wanted for?” he repeated.

But at that instant, his name was thundered forth by the other boatswain’s-mates, and Brown hurried him away, hinting that he would soon find out what the captain wanted. Fernando swallowed down his heart as he touched the spardeck, for a single instant balanced himself on his best centre, and then, wholly ignorant of what was going to be alleged against him, advanced to the dread tribunal of the frigate. The sight of the quarter-master rigging his gratings, the boatswain with his detestable green bag of scourges, the master-at-arms standing ready to assist some one to take off his shirt was not calculated to allay his apprehensions. With another desperate effort to swallow his whole soul, he found himself face to face with Captain Snipes, whose flushed face showed his ill humor. At his side was the first lieutenant, who, as Fernando came aft, eyed him with some degree of conscientious vexation at being compelled to make him the scapegoat of his own negligence.

“Why were you not at your station, sir?” asked the captain.

“What station do you mean, sir?” Fernando asked, forgetting the accustomed formality of touching his hat, by way of salute, while speaking with so punctilious an officer as Captain Snipes. This little fact did not escape the captain’s attention.

“Your pretension to ignorance will not help you sir,” the Captain retorted.

The first lieutenant now produced the station bill, and read the name of Fernando Stevens in connection with the starboard main-lift.

“Captain Snipes,” said Fernando in a voice firm and terrible in its sincerity, “it is the first time I knew I was assigned to that post.”

“How is this, Mr. Bacon?” the captain asked turning to the first lieutenant with a fault-finding expression.

“It is impossible, sir, that this man should not know his station,” replied, the lieutenant.

“Captain Snipes, I will swear, I never knew it before this moment,” answered Fernando.

With an oath, the captain cried:

“Do you contradict my officer? I’ll flog you, by !”

Fernando had been on board the frigate for more than two years and remained unscourged. Though a slave in fact, he lived in hope of soon being a free man. Now, after making himself a hermit in some things, after enduring countless torments and insults without resentment, in order to avoid the possibility of the scourge, here it was hanging over him for a thing utterly unforeseen, a crime of which he was wholly innocent; but all that was naught. He saw that his case was hopeless; his solemn disclaimer was thrown in his teeth, and the boatswain’s-mate stood curling his fingers through the “cat.” There are times when wild thoughts enter a man’s heart, when he seems almost irresponsible for his act and his deed. The captain stood on the weather side of the deck. Sideways on an unoccupied line with him, was the opening of the lee-gangway, where the side-ladders were suspended in port. Nothing but a slight bit of sinnate-stuff served to rail in this opening, which was cut down to a level with the captain’s feet, showing the far sea beyond. Fernando stood a little to windward of him, and, though Captain Snipes was a large, powerful man, it was quite certain that a sudden rush against him, along the slanting deck, would infallibly pitch him headforemost into the ocean, though he who rushed must needs go over with him. The young American’s blood seemed clotting in his veins; he felt icy cold at the tips of his fingers, and a dimness was before his eyes; but through that dimness, the boatswain’s-mate, scourge in hand, loomed like a giant, and Captain Snipes and the blue sea, seen through the opening at the gangway, showed with an awful vividness. He was never able to analyze his heart, though it then stood still within him; but the thing that swayed him to his purpose was not altogether the thought that Captain Snipes was about to degrade him, and that he had taken an oath within his soul that he should not. No; he felt his manhood so bottomless within him, that no word, no blow, no scourge of Captain Snipe’s could cut deep enough for that. He but clung to an instinct in him, the instinct diffused through all animated nature, the same that prompts the worm to turn under the heel. Locking souls with him, he meant to drag Captain Snipes from this earthly tribunal of his, to that of Jéhovah, and let Him decide between them. No other way could he escape the scourge.

“To the gratings, sir!” cried Captain Snipes. “Do you hear?”

Fernando’s eye measured the distance between him and the sea, and he was gathering himself together for the fatal spring

“Captain Snipes,” said a voice advancing from the crowd. Every eye turned to see who spoke. It was the remarkably handsome and gentlemanly gunner, Hugh St. Mark, who was scarcely ever known to break the silence, and all were amazed that he should do so now. “I know that man,” said St. Mark, touching his cap, and speaking in a mild, firm, but extremely deferential manner, “and I know that he would not be found absent from his station, if he knew where it was.”

This speech was almost unprecedented. Never before had a marine dared to speak to the captain of a frigate in behalf of a seaman at the mast; but there was something unostentatiously forcible and commanding in St. Mark’s manner. He had once saved the captain’s life, when a French boarder was about to slay him. Then the corporal, emboldened by St. Mark’s audacity, put in a good word. Terrence, who had been promoted to a small office, poured forth a torrent of eloquence, and, almost before he knew it, Fernando was free. As he was going to his quarters, his brain in a whirl, he heard Job the cook say:

“He ain’t no Britisher! Dar ain’t no more Angler Saxon blood in his veins dan in dis chile!”

An hour later, when he stood near a gun carriage, still dizzy from his narrow escape from the double crime of murder and suicide, St. Mark passed Fernando. He grasped the hand of the silent gunner, held it a moment in his own and whispered: “Thank you!”