Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Eighteen.In which our hero sets off on another cruise, in which he is not blown off shore.Gascoigne and our hero were neither of them in uniform, and they hastened to Nix Mangare stairs where they soon picked up the padrone of a speronare. They went with him into a wine-shop, and with the assistance of a little English from a Maltese boy, whose shirt hung out of his trousers, they made a bargain, by which it was agreed that, for the consideration of two doubloons, he would sail that evening and land them at Gergenti or some other town in Sicily, providing them with something to eat and gregos to sleep upon.Our two midshipmen then went back to the tavern from which they had set off to fight the duel, and ordering a good dinner to be served in a back room, they amused themselves with killing flies, as they talked over the events of the day, and waited for their dinner.As Mr Tallboys did not himself think proper to go on board till the evening, and Mr Biggs also wished it to be dark before he went up the ship’s side, the events of the duel did not transpire till the next morning. Even then it was not known from the boatswain or gunner, but by a hospital mate coming on board to inform the surgeon that there was one of their men wounded under their charge, but that he was doing very well.Mr Biggs had ascended the side with his face bound up.“Confound that Jack Easy,” said he, “I have only been on leave twice since I sailed from Portsmouth—once I was obliged to come up the side without my trousers, and show my bare stern to the whole ship’s company, and now I am coming up, and dare not show my figure-head.” He reported himself to the officer of the watch, and hasting to his cabin, went to bed, and lay the whole night awake from pain, thinking what excuse he could possibly make for not coming on deck next morning to his duty.He was, however, saved this trouble, for Mr Jolliffe brought the letter of Gascoigne up to Mr Sawbridge, and the captain had received that of our hero.Captain Wilson came on board, and found that Mr Sawbridge could communicate all the particulars of which he had not been acquainted by Jack; and after they had read over Gascoigne’s letter in the cabin, and interrogated Mr Tallboys, who was sent down under an arrest, they gave free vent to their mirth.“Upon my soul, there’s no end to Mr Easy’s adventures,” said the captain. “I could laugh at the duel, for after all, it is nothing—and he would have been let off with a severe reprimand; but the foolish boys have set off in a speronare to Sicily, and how the devil are we to get them back again?”“They’ll come back, sir,” replied Sawbridge, “when all their money’s gone.”“Yes, if they do not get into any more scrapes—that young scamp Gascoigne is as bad as Easy, and now they are together there’s no saying what may happen. I dine at the Governor’s to-day; how he will laugh when I tell him of this new way of fighting a duel!”“Yes, sir, it is just the thing that will tickle old Tom.”“We must find out if they have got off the island, Sawbridge, which may not be the case.”But it was the case. Jack and Gascoigne had eaten a very good dinner, sent for the monkey to amuse them till it was dark, and there had waited till the padrone came to them.“What shall we do with the pistols, Easy?”“Take them with us, and load them before we go—we may want them: who knows but there may be a mutiny on board of the speronare?—I wish we had Mesty with us.”They loaded the pistols, took a pair each and put them in their waists, concealed under their clothes—divided the ammunition between them, and soon afterwards the padrone came to tell them all was ready.Whereupon Messrs Gascoigne and Easy paid their bill and rose to depart, but the padrone informed them that he should like to see the colour of their money before they went on board. Jack, very indignant at the insinuation that he had not sufficient cash, pulled out a handful of doubloons, and tossing two to the padrone, asked him if he was satisfied.The padrone untied his sash, put in the money, and with many thanks and protestations of service, begged our young gentlemen to accompany him: they did so, and in a few minutes were clear of Nix Mangare stairs, and, passing close to his Majesty’s shipHarpy,were soon out of the harbour of Vallette.Of all the varieties of vessels which float upon the wave, there is not, perhaps, one that bounds over the water so gracefully or so lightly as a speronare, or any one so picturesque and beautiful to the eye of those who watch its progress.The night was clear, and the stars shone out brilliantly as the light craft skimmed over the water, and a fragment of a descending and waning moon threw its soft beams upon the snow-white sail. The vessel, which had no neck, was full of baskets, which had contained grapes and various fruits brought from the ancient granary of Rome, still as fertile and as luxuriant as ever. The crew consisted of the padrone, two men and a boy; the three latter, with their gregos, or night greatcoats with hoods, sitting forward before the sail, with their eyes fixed on the land as they flew past point after point, thinking perhaps of their wives, or perhaps of their sweethearts, or perhaps not thinking at all.The padrone remained aft at the helm, offering every politeness to our two young gentlemen, who only wished to be left alone. At last they requested the padrone to give them gregos to lie down upon, as they wished to go to sleep. He called the boy to take the helm, procured them all they required, and then went forward. And our two midshipmen laid down looking at the stars above them, for some minutes, without exchanging a word. At last Jack commenced.“I have been thinking, Gascoigne, that this is very delightful. My heart bounds with the vessel, and it almost appears to me as if the vessel herself was rejoicing in her liberty. Here she is capering over the waves instead of being tied by the nose with a cable and anchor.”“That’s a touch of the sentimental, Jack,” replied Gascoigne; “but she is no more free than she was when at anchor, for she now is forced to act in obedience to her steersman, and go just where he pleases. You may just as well say that a horse, if taken out of the stable, is free, with the curb and his rider on his back.”“That’s a touch of the rational, Ned, which destroys the illusion. Never mind, we are free, at all events. What machines we are on board of a man-of-war! We walk, talk, eat, drink, sleep, and get up, just like clock-work; we are wound up to go the twenty-four hours, and then wound up again; just like old Smallsole does the chronometers.”“Very true, Jack; but it does not appear to me, that, hitherto, you have kept very good time: you require a little more regulating,” said Gascoigne.“How can you expect any piece of machinery to go well, so damnably knocked about as a midshipman is?” replied our hero.“Very true, Jack; but sometimes you don’t keep any time, for you don’t keep any watch. Mr Asper don’t wind you up. You don’t go at all.”“No; because he allows me to godown;but still I dogo,Ned.”“Yes, to your hammock—but it’sno gowith old Smallsole, if I want a bit ofcaulk. But, Jack, what do you say—shall we keep watch to-night?”“Why, to tell you the truth, I have been thinking the same thing—I don’t much like the looks of the padrone—he squints.”“That’s no proof of anything, Jack, except that his eyes are not straight; but if you do not like the look of him, I can tell you that he very much liked the look of your doubloons—I saw him start, and his eyes twinkled, and I thought at the time it was a pity you had not paid him in dollars.”“It was very foolish in me; but at all events he has not seen all.”“He saw quite enough, Ned.”“Very true, but you should have let him see the pistols, and not have let him see the doubloons.”“Well, if he wishes to take what he has seen, he shall receive what he has not seen—why, there are only four of them?”“Oh, I have no fear of them, only it may be as well to sleep with one eye open.”“When shall we make the land?”“To-morrow evening with this wind, and it appears to be steady. Suppose we keep watch and watch, and have our pistols out ready, with the greatcoats just turned over them, to keep them out of sight?”“Agreed—it’s about twelve o’clock now—who shall keep the middle watch?”“I will, Jack, if you like it.”“Well, then, mind you kick me hard, for I sleep devilish sound. Good—night, and keep a sharp lookout.”Jack was fast asleep in less than ten minutes; and Gascoigne, with his pistols lying by him all ready for each hand, sat up at the bottom of the boat.There certainly is a peculiar providence in favour of midshipmen compared with the rest of mankind; they have more lives than a cat—always in the greatest danger, but always escaping from it.The padrone of the vessel had been captivated with the doubloons which Jack had so foolishly exposed to his view, and he had, moreover, resolved to obtain them. At the very time that our two lads were conversing aft, the padrone was talking the matter over with his two men forward, and it was agreed that they should murder, rifle, and then throw them overboard.About two o’clock in the morning, the padrone came aft to see if they were asleep, but found Gascoigne watching. He returned aft again and again; but found the young man still sitting up. Tired of waiting, anxious to possess the money, and supposing that the lads were armed, he went once more forward and spoke to the men. Gascoigne had watched his motions; he thought it singular that, with three men in the vessel, the helm should be confided to the boy—and at last he saw them draw their knives. He pushed our hero, who woke immediately Gascoigne put his hand over Jack’s mouth, that he might not speak, and then he whispered his suspicions. Jack seized his pistols—they both cocked them without noise, and then waited in silence, Jack still lying down while Gascoigne continued to sit up at the bottom of the boat. At last Gascoigne saw the three men coming aft—he dropped one of his pistols for a second to give Jack a squeeze of the hand, which was returned, and as Gascoigne watched them making their way through the piles of empty baskets he leaned back as if he was slumbering. The padrone, followed by the two men, was at last aft—they paused a moment before they stepped over the strengthening plank, which ran from side to side of the boat between them and the midshipmen, and as neither of them stirred they imagined that both were asleep—advanced and raised their knives, when Gascoigne and Jack, almost at the same moment, each discharged their pistols into the breast of the padrone and one of the men, who was with him in advance, who both fell with the send aft of the boat, so as to encumber the midshipmen with the weight of their bodies. The third man started back. Jack, who could not rise, from the padrone lying across his legs, took a steady aim with his second pistol, and the third man fell. The boy at the helm, who, it appeared, either was aware of what was to be done, or seeing the men advance with their knives, had acted upon what he saw, also drew his knife and struck at Gascoigne from behind. The knife fortunately, after slightly wounding Gascoigne on the shoulder, had shut on the boy’s hand—Gascoigne sprang up with his other pistol, the boy started back at the sight of it, lost his balance, and fell overboard.Our two midshipmen took a few seconds to breathe.“I say, Jack,” said Gascoigne at last, “did you ever—”“No, I never—” replied Jack.“What’s to be done now?”“Why, as we’ve got possession, Ned, we had better put a man at the helm—for the speronare is having it all her own way.”“Very true,” replied Gascoigne; “and as I can steer better than you, I suppose it must be me.”Gascoigne went to the helm, brought the boat up to the wind, and then they resumed their conversation.“That rascal of a boy gave me a devil of a lick on the shoulder; I don’t know whether he has hurt me—at all events it’s my left shoulder, so I can steer just as well. I wonder whether the fellows are dead.”“The padrone is, at all events,” replied Jack. “It was as much as I could do to get my legs from under him—but we’ll wait till daylight before we see to that—in the meantime, I’ll load the pistols again.”“The day is breaking now—it will be light in half an hour or less. What a devil of a spree, Jack!”“Yes, but how can one help it? We ran away because two men are wounded—and now we are obliged to kill four in self-defence.”“Yes, but that is not the end of it; when we get to Sicily what are we to do? we shall be imprisoned by the authorities—perhaps hung.”“We’ll argue that point with them,” replied Jack.“We had better argue the point between ourselves, Jack, and see what will be the best plan to get out of our scrape.”“I think that we just have got out of it—never fear but we’ll get out of the next. Do you know, Gascoigne, it appears to me very odd, but I can do nothing but there’s a bobbery at the bottom of it.”“You certainly have a great talent that way, Jack. Don’t I hear one of these poor fellows groan?”“I should think that not impossible.”“What shall we do with them?”“We will argue that point, Ned—we must either keep their bodies or we must throw them overboard. Either tell the whole story or say nothing about it.”“That’s very evident; in short, we must do something, for your argument goes no further. But now let us take up one of your propositions.”“Well then, suppose we keep the bodies on board, run into a seaport, go to the authorities, and state all the facts, what then?”“We shall prove, beyond all doubt, that we have killed three men, if not four; but we shall not prove that we were obliged so to do, Jack. And then we are heretics—we shall be put in prison till they are satisfied of our innocence, which we never can prove, and there we shall remain until we have written to Malta, and a man-of-war comes to redeem us, if we are not stabbed, or something else in the meantime.”“That will not be a very pleasant cruise,” replied Jack. “Now let’s argue the point on the other side.”“There is some difficulty there—suppose we throw their bodies overboard, toss the baskets after them, wash the boat clean, and make for the first port. We may chance to hit upon the very spot from which they sailed, and then there will be a pack of wives and children, and a populace with knives, asking us what has become of the men of the boat.”“I don’t much like the idea of that,” said Jack.“And if we don’t have such bad luck, still we shall be interrogated as to who we are, and how we were adrift by ourselves.”“There will be a difficulty about that again—we must swear that it is a party of pleasure, and that we are gentlemen yachting.”“Without a crew or provisions—yachts don’t sail with a clean-swept hold, or gentlemen without a spare shirt—we have nothing but two gallons of water and two pairs of pistols.”“I have it,” said Jack—“we are two young gentlemen in our own boat who went out to Gozo with pistols to shoot sea-mews, were caught in a gale, and blown down to Sicily—that will excite interest.”“That’s the best idea yet, as it will account for our having nothing in the boat. Well then, at all events, we will get rid of the bodies; but suppose they are not dead—we cannot throw them overboard alive—that will be murder.”“Very true,” replied Jack; “then we must shoot them first, and toss them overboard afterwards.”“Upon my soul, Easy, you are an odd fellow: however, go and examine the men, and we’ll decide that point by-and-bye—you had better keep your pistol ready cocked for they may be shamming.”“Devil a bit of sham here, anyhow,” replied Jack, pulling at the body of the padrone, “and as for this fellow you shot, you might put your fist into his chest. Now for the third,” continued Jack, stepping over the strengthening piece—“he’s all among the baskets. I say, my cock, are you dead?” and Jack enforced his question with a kick in the ribs. The man groaned. “That’s unlucky, Gascoigne, but, however, I’ll soon settle him,” said Jack, pointing his pistol.“Stop, Jack,” cried Gascoigne, “it really will be murder.”“No such thing, Ned; I’ll just blow his brains out, and then I’ll come aft and argue the point with you.”“Now do oblige me by coming aft and arguing the point first. Do, Jack, I beg of you—I entreat you.”“With all my heart,” replied Jack, resuming his seat by Gascoigne; “I assert, that in this instance killing’s no murder. You will observe, Ned, that by the laws of society, any one who attempts the life of another has forfeited his own; at the same time, as it is necessary that the fact should be clearly proved and justice be duly administered, the parties are tried, convicted, and then are sentenced to the punishment.”“I grant all that.”“In this instance the attempt has been clearly proved; we are the witnesses, and are the judges and jury, and society in general, for the best of all possible reasons, because there is nobody else. These men’s lives being therefore forfeited to society, belong to us; and it does not follow because they were not all killed in the attempt, that therefore they are not now to be brought out for punishment. And as there is no common hangman here, we, of course, must do this duty as well as every other. I have now clearly proved that I am justified in what I am about to do. But the argument does not stop there—self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if we do not get rid of this man, what is the consequence?—that we shall have to account for his being wounded, and then, instead of judges, we shall immediately be placed in the position of culprits, and have to defend ourselves without witnesses. We therefore risk our lives from a misplaced lenity towards a wretch unworthy to live.”“Your last argument is strong, Easy, but I cannot consent to your doing what may occasion you uneasiness hereafter when you think of it.”“Pooh! nonsense—I am a philosopher.”“Of what school, Jack? Oh, I presume you are a disciple of Mesty’s. I do not mean to say that you are wrong, but still hear my proposition. Let us lower down the sail, and then I can leave the helm to assist you. We will clear the vessel of everything except the man who is still alive. At all events, we may wait a little, and if at last there is no help for it, I will then agree with you to launch him overboard, even if he is not quite dead.”“Agreed; even by your own making out, it will be no great sin. He is half dead already—I only dohalfthe work of tossing him over, so it will be onlyquartermurder on my part, and he would have shown no quarter on his.” Here Jack left off arguing and punning, and went forward and lowered down the sail. “I’ve half a mind to take my doubloons back,” said Jack, as they launched over the body of the padrone, “but he may have them—I wonder whether they’ll ever turn up again?”“Not in our time, Jack,” replied Gascoigne.The other body, and all the basket lumber, etcetera, were then tossed over, and the boat was cleared of all but the man who was not yet dead.“Now let’s examine the fellow, and see if he has any chance of recovery,” said Gascoigne.The man lay on his side; Gascoigne turned him over, and found that he was dead.“Over with him, quick,” said Jack, “before he comes to life again.”The body disappeared under the wave—they again hoisted the sail, Gascoigne took the helm, and our hero proceeded to draw water and wash away the stains of blood; he then cleared the boat of vine-leaves and rubbish, with which it was strewed, swept it clean fore and aft, and resumed his seat by his comrade.“There,” said Jack, “now we’ve swept the decks, we may pipe to dinner. I wonder whether there is anything to eat in the locker?”Jack opened it, and found some bread, garlic, sausages, a bottle of aquadente, and a jar of wine.“So the padrone did keep his promise, after all.”“Yes, and had you not tempted him with the sight of so much gold, might now have been alive.”“To which I reply, that if you had not advised our going off in a speronare, he would now have been alive.”“And if you had not fought a duel, I should not have given the advice.”“And if the boatswain had not been obliged to come on board without his trousers, at Gibraltar, I should not have fought a duel.”“And if you had not joined the ship, the boatswain would have had his trousers on.”“And if my father had not been a philosopher, I should not have gone to sea; so that it is all my father’s fault, and he has killed four men off the coast of Sicily, without knowing it—cause and effect. After all, there’s nothing like argument; so having settled that point, let us go to dinner.”Having finished their meal, Jack went forward and observed the land ahead; they steered the same course for three or four hours.“We must haul our wind more,” said Gascoigne; “it will not do to put into any small town: we have now to choose, whether we shall land on the coast and sink the speronare, or land at some large town.”“We must argue that point,” replied Jack.“In the meantime, do you take the helm, for my arm is quite tired,” replied Gascoigne: “you can steer well enough; by-the-bye, I may as well look at my shoulder, for it is quite stiff.” Gascoigne pulled off his coat, and found his shirt bloody and sticking to the wound, which, as we before observed, was slight. He again took the helm, while Jack washed it clean and then bathed it with aquadente.“Now take the helm again,” said Gascoigne; “I’m on the sick list.”“And as surgeon—I’m an idler,” replied Jack; “but what shall we do?” continued he; “abandon the speronare at night and sink her, or run in for a town?”“We shall fall in with plenty of boats and vessels if we coast it up to Palermo, and they may overhaul us.”“We shall fall in with plenty of people if we go on shore, and they will overhaul us.”“Do you know, Jack, that I wish we were back and alongside of theHarpy;I’ve had cruising enough.”“My cruises are so unfortunate,” replied Jack; “they are too full of adventure; but then, I have never yet had a cruise on shore. Now, if we could only get to Palermo, we should be out of all our difficulties.”“The breeze freshens, Jack,” replied Gascoigne; “and it begins to look very dirty to windward. I think we shall have a gale.”“Pleasant—I know what it is to be short-handed in a gale; however, there’s one comfort, we shall not be blownoff shorethis time.”“No, but we may be wrecked on a lee shore. She cannot carry her whole sail, Easy; we must lower it down, and take in a reef; the sooner the better, for it will be dark in an hour. Go forward and lower it down, and then I’ll help you.”Jack did so, but the sail went into the water, and he could not drag it in.“Avast heaving,” said Gascoigne, “till I throw her up and take the wind out of it.”This was done; they reefed the sail, but could not hoist it up: if Gascoigne left the helm to help Jack, the sail filled; if he went to the helm and took the wind out of the sail, Jack was not strong enough to hoist it. The wind increased rapidly, and the sea got up; the sun went down, and with the sail half hoisted, they could not keep to the wind, but were obliged to run right for the land. The speronare flew, rising on the crest of the waves with half her keel clear of the water: the moon was already up, and gave them light enough to perceive that they were not five miles from the coast, which was lined with foam.“At all events, they can’t accuse us of running away with the boat,” observed Jack; “for she’s running away with us.”“Yes,” replied Gascoigne, dragging at the tiller with all his strength; “she has taken the bit between her teeth.”“I wouldn’t care if I had a bit between mine,” replied Jack; “for I feel devilish hungry again. What do you say, Ned?”“With all my heart,” replied Gascoigne; “but, do you know, Easy, it may be the last meal we ever make.”“Then I vote it’s a good one—but why so, Ned?”“In half an hour, or thereabouts, we shall be on shore.”“Well, that’s where we want to go.”“Yes, but the sea runs high, and the boat may be dashed to pieces on the rocks.”“Then we shall be asked no questions about her or the men.”“Very true, but a lee shore is no joke; we may be knocked to pieces, as well as the boat—even swimming may not help us. If we could find a cove or sandy beach, we might, perhaps, manage to get on shore.”“Well,” replied Jack, “I have not been long at sea, and, of course, cannot know much about these things. I have been blown off shore, but I never have been blown on. It may be as you say, but I do not see the great danger—let’s run her right up on the beach at once.”“That’s what I shall try to do,” replied Gascoigne, who had been four years at sea, and knew very well what he was about.Jack handed him a huge piece of bread and sausage.“Thank ye, I cannot eat.”“I can,” replied Jack, with his mouth full.Jack ate while Gascoigne steered; and the rapidity with which the speronare rushed to the beach was almost frightful. She darted like an arrow from wave to wave, and appeared as if mocking their attempts as they curled their summits almost over her narrow stern. They were within a mile of the beach, when Jack, who had finished his supper, and was looking at the foam boiling on the coast, exclaimed:“That’s very fine—very beautiful, upon my soul!”“He cares for nothing,” thought Gascoigne; “he appears to have no idea of danger.”“Now, my dear fellow,” said Gascoigne, “in a few minutes we shall be on the rocks. I must continue at the helm, for the higher she is forced up the better chance for us; but we may not meet again, so if we do not, good-bye, and God bless you.”“Gascoigne,” said Jack, “you are hurt and I am not; your shoulder is stiff, and you can hardly move your left arm. Now I can steer for the rocks as well as you. Do you go to the bow, and there you will have a better chance. By-the-bye,” continued he, picking up his pistols, and sticking them into his waist, “I won’t leave them, they’ve served us too good a turn already. Gascoigne, give me the helm.”“No, no, Easy.”“I say yes,” replied Jack, in a loud, authoritative tone, “and what’s more, I will be obeyed, Gascoigne. I have nerve, if I haven’t knowledge, and at all events I can steer for the beach. I tell you, give me the helm. Well, then, if you won’t—I must take it.”Easy wrested the tiller from Gascoigne’s hand, and gave him a shove forward.“Now do you look out ahead, and tell me how to steer.”Whatever may have been Gascoigne’s feelings at this behaviour of our hero’s, it immediately occurred to him that he could not do better than to run the speronare to the safest point, and that therefore he was probably more advantageously employed than if he were at the helm. He went forward and looked at the rocks, covered at one moment with the tumultuous waters, and then pouring down cascades from their sides as the waves recoiled. He perceived a chasm right ahead, and he thought if the boat was steered for that, she must be thrown up so as to enable them to get clear of her, for at every other part escape appeared impossible.“Starboard a little—that’ll do. Steady—port it is—port. Steer small, for your life, Easy. Steady now—mind the yard don’t hit your head—hold on.”The speronare was at this moment thrown into a large cleft in a rock, the sides of which were nearly perpendicular; nothing else could have saved them, as, had they struck the rock outside, the boat would have been dashed to pieces, and its fragments have disappeared in the undertow. As it was, the cleft was not four feet more than the width of the boat, and as the waves hurled her up into it, the yard of the speronare was thrown fore and aft with great violence, and had not Jack been warned, he would have been struck overboard without a chance of being saved; but he crouched down and it passed over him. As the water receded, the boat struck, and was nearly dry between the rocks, but another wave followed, dashing the boat farther up, but, at the same time, filling it with water. The bow of the boat was now several feet higher than the stern, where Jack held on; and the weight of the water in her, with the force of the returning waves, separated her right across abaft the mast. Jack perceived that the after-part of the boat was going out again with the wave; he caught hold of the yard which had swung fore and aft, and as he clung to it, the part of the boat on which he had stood disappeared from under him, and was swept away by the returning current.Jack required the utmost of his strength to maintain his position until another wave floated him, and dashed him higher up: but he knew his life depended on holding on to the yard, which he did, although under water, and advanced several feet. When the wave receded, he found footing on the rock, and still clinging, he walked till he had gained the fore-part of the boat, which was wedged firmly into a narrow part of the cleft. The next wave was not very large, and he had gained so much that it did not throw him off his legs. He reached the rock, and as he climbed up the side of the chasm to gain the ledge above, he perceived Gascoigne standing above him, and holding out his hand to his assistance.“Well,” says Jack, shaking himself to get rid of the water, “here we are, ashore at last—I had no idea of anything like this. The rush back of the water was so strong that it has almost torn my arms out of their sockets. How very lucky I sent you forward with your disabled shoulder. By-the-bye, now that it’s all over, and you must see that I was right, I beg to apologise for my rudeness.”“There needs no apology for saving my life, Easy,” replied Gascoigne, trembling with the cold; “and no one but you would ever have thought of making one at such a moment.”“I wonder whether the ammunition’s dry,” said Jack; “I put it all in my hat.”Jack took off his hat, and found the cartridges had not suffered.“Now then, Gascoigne, what shall we do?”“I hardly know,” replied Gascoigne.“Suppose, then, we sit down and argue the point.”“No, I thank you, there will be too much cold water thrown upon our arguments—I’m half dead; let us walk on.”“With all my heart,” said Jack, “it’s devilish steep, but I can argue up hill or down hill, wet or dry—I’m used to it—for, as I told you before, Ned, my father is a philosopher, and so am I.”“By the Lord!you are,” replied Gascoigne, as he walked on.

Gascoigne and our hero were neither of them in uniform, and they hastened to Nix Mangare stairs where they soon picked up the padrone of a speronare. They went with him into a wine-shop, and with the assistance of a little English from a Maltese boy, whose shirt hung out of his trousers, they made a bargain, by which it was agreed that, for the consideration of two doubloons, he would sail that evening and land them at Gergenti or some other town in Sicily, providing them with something to eat and gregos to sleep upon.

Our two midshipmen then went back to the tavern from which they had set off to fight the duel, and ordering a good dinner to be served in a back room, they amused themselves with killing flies, as they talked over the events of the day, and waited for their dinner.

As Mr Tallboys did not himself think proper to go on board till the evening, and Mr Biggs also wished it to be dark before he went up the ship’s side, the events of the duel did not transpire till the next morning. Even then it was not known from the boatswain or gunner, but by a hospital mate coming on board to inform the surgeon that there was one of their men wounded under their charge, but that he was doing very well.

Mr Biggs had ascended the side with his face bound up.

“Confound that Jack Easy,” said he, “I have only been on leave twice since I sailed from Portsmouth—once I was obliged to come up the side without my trousers, and show my bare stern to the whole ship’s company, and now I am coming up, and dare not show my figure-head.” He reported himself to the officer of the watch, and hasting to his cabin, went to bed, and lay the whole night awake from pain, thinking what excuse he could possibly make for not coming on deck next morning to his duty.

He was, however, saved this trouble, for Mr Jolliffe brought the letter of Gascoigne up to Mr Sawbridge, and the captain had received that of our hero.

Captain Wilson came on board, and found that Mr Sawbridge could communicate all the particulars of which he had not been acquainted by Jack; and after they had read over Gascoigne’s letter in the cabin, and interrogated Mr Tallboys, who was sent down under an arrest, they gave free vent to their mirth.

“Upon my soul, there’s no end to Mr Easy’s adventures,” said the captain. “I could laugh at the duel, for after all, it is nothing—and he would have been let off with a severe reprimand; but the foolish boys have set off in a speronare to Sicily, and how the devil are we to get them back again?”

“They’ll come back, sir,” replied Sawbridge, “when all their money’s gone.”

“Yes, if they do not get into any more scrapes—that young scamp Gascoigne is as bad as Easy, and now they are together there’s no saying what may happen. I dine at the Governor’s to-day; how he will laugh when I tell him of this new way of fighting a duel!”

“Yes, sir, it is just the thing that will tickle old Tom.”

“We must find out if they have got off the island, Sawbridge, which may not be the case.”

But it was the case. Jack and Gascoigne had eaten a very good dinner, sent for the monkey to amuse them till it was dark, and there had waited till the padrone came to them.

“What shall we do with the pistols, Easy?”

“Take them with us, and load them before we go—we may want them: who knows but there may be a mutiny on board of the speronare?—I wish we had Mesty with us.”

They loaded the pistols, took a pair each and put them in their waists, concealed under their clothes—divided the ammunition between them, and soon afterwards the padrone came to tell them all was ready.

Whereupon Messrs Gascoigne and Easy paid their bill and rose to depart, but the padrone informed them that he should like to see the colour of their money before they went on board. Jack, very indignant at the insinuation that he had not sufficient cash, pulled out a handful of doubloons, and tossing two to the padrone, asked him if he was satisfied.

The padrone untied his sash, put in the money, and with many thanks and protestations of service, begged our young gentlemen to accompany him: they did so, and in a few minutes were clear of Nix Mangare stairs, and, passing close to his Majesty’s shipHarpy,were soon out of the harbour of Vallette.

Of all the varieties of vessels which float upon the wave, there is not, perhaps, one that bounds over the water so gracefully or so lightly as a speronare, or any one so picturesque and beautiful to the eye of those who watch its progress.

The night was clear, and the stars shone out brilliantly as the light craft skimmed over the water, and a fragment of a descending and waning moon threw its soft beams upon the snow-white sail. The vessel, which had no neck, was full of baskets, which had contained grapes and various fruits brought from the ancient granary of Rome, still as fertile and as luxuriant as ever. The crew consisted of the padrone, two men and a boy; the three latter, with their gregos, or night greatcoats with hoods, sitting forward before the sail, with their eyes fixed on the land as they flew past point after point, thinking perhaps of their wives, or perhaps of their sweethearts, or perhaps not thinking at all.

The padrone remained aft at the helm, offering every politeness to our two young gentlemen, who only wished to be left alone. At last they requested the padrone to give them gregos to lie down upon, as they wished to go to sleep. He called the boy to take the helm, procured them all they required, and then went forward. And our two midshipmen laid down looking at the stars above them, for some minutes, without exchanging a word. At last Jack commenced.

“I have been thinking, Gascoigne, that this is very delightful. My heart bounds with the vessel, and it almost appears to me as if the vessel herself was rejoicing in her liberty. Here she is capering over the waves instead of being tied by the nose with a cable and anchor.”

“That’s a touch of the sentimental, Jack,” replied Gascoigne; “but she is no more free than she was when at anchor, for she now is forced to act in obedience to her steersman, and go just where he pleases. You may just as well say that a horse, if taken out of the stable, is free, with the curb and his rider on his back.”

“That’s a touch of the rational, Ned, which destroys the illusion. Never mind, we are free, at all events. What machines we are on board of a man-of-war! We walk, talk, eat, drink, sleep, and get up, just like clock-work; we are wound up to go the twenty-four hours, and then wound up again; just like old Smallsole does the chronometers.”

“Very true, Jack; but it does not appear to me, that, hitherto, you have kept very good time: you require a little more regulating,” said Gascoigne.

“How can you expect any piece of machinery to go well, so damnably knocked about as a midshipman is?” replied our hero.

“Very true, Jack; but sometimes you don’t keep any time, for you don’t keep any watch. Mr Asper don’t wind you up. You don’t go at all.”

“No; because he allows me to godown;but still I dogo,Ned.”

“Yes, to your hammock—but it’sno gowith old Smallsole, if I want a bit ofcaulk. But, Jack, what do you say—shall we keep watch to-night?”

“Why, to tell you the truth, I have been thinking the same thing—I don’t much like the looks of the padrone—he squints.”

“That’s no proof of anything, Jack, except that his eyes are not straight; but if you do not like the look of him, I can tell you that he very much liked the look of your doubloons—I saw him start, and his eyes twinkled, and I thought at the time it was a pity you had not paid him in dollars.”

“It was very foolish in me; but at all events he has not seen all.”

“He saw quite enough, Ned.”

“Very true, but you should have let him see the pistols, and not have let him see the doubloons.”

“Well, if he wishes to take what he has seen, he shall receive what he has not seen—why, there are only four of them?”

“Oh, I have no fear of them, only it may be as well to sleep with one eye open.”

“When shall we make the land?”

“To-morrow evening with this wind, and it appears to be steady. Suppose we keep watch and watch, and have our pistols out ready, with the greatcoats just turned over them, to keep them out of sight?”

“Agreed—it’s about twelve o’clock now—who shall keep the middle watch?”

“I will, Jack, if you like it.”

“Well, then, mind you kick me hard, for I sleep devilish sound. Good—night, and keep a sharp lookout.”

Jack was fast asleep in less than ten minutes; and Gascoigne, with his pistols lying by him all ready for each hand, sat up at the bottom of the boat.

There certainly is a peculiar providence in favour of midshipmen compared with the rest of mankind; they have more lives than a cat—always in the greatest danger, but always escaping from it.

The padrone of the vessel had been captivated with the doubloons which Jack had so foolishly exposed to his view, and he had, moreover, resolved to obtain them. At the very time that our two lads were conversing aft, the padrone was talking the matter over with his two men forward, and it was agreed that they should murder, rifle, and then throw them overboard.

About two o’clock in the morning, the padrone came aft to see if they were asleep, but found Gascoigne watching. He returned aft again and again; but found the young man still sitting up. Tired of waiting, anxious to possess the money, and supposing that the lads were armed, he went once more forward and spoke to the men. Gascoigne had watched his motions; he thought it singular that, with three men in the vessel, the helm should be confided to the boy—and at last he saw them draw their knives. He pushed our hero, who woke immediately Gascoigne put his hand over Jack’s mouth, that he might not speak, and then he whispered his suspicions. Jack seized his pistols—they both cocked them without noise, and then waited in silence, Jack still lying down while Gascoigne continued to sit up at the bottom of the boat. At last Gascoigne saw the three men coming aft—he dropped one of his pistols for a second to give Jack a squeeze of the hand, which was returned, and as Gascoigne watched them making their way through the piles of empty baskets he leaned back as if he was slumbering. The padrone, followed by the two men, was at last aft—they paused a moment before they stepped over the strengthening plank, which ran from side to side of the boat between them and the midshipmen, and as neither of them stirred they imagined that both were asleep—advanced and raised their knives, when Gascoigne and Jack, almost at the same moment, each discharged their pistols into the breast of the padrone and one of the men, who was with him in advance, who both fell with the send aft of the boat, so as to encumber the midshipmen with the weight of their bodies. The third man started back. Jack, who could not rise, from the padrone lying across his legs, took a steady aim with his second pistol, and the third man fell. The boy at the helm, who, it appeared, either was aware of what was to be done, or seeing the men advance with their knives, had acted upon what he saw, also drew his knife and struck at Gascoigne from behind. The knife fortunately, after slightly wounding Gascoigne on the shoulder, had shut on the boy’s hand—Gascoigne sprang up with his other pistol, the boy started back at the sight of it, lost his balance, and fell overboard.

Our two midshipmen took a few seconds to breathe.

“I say, Jack,” said Gascoigne at last, “did you ever—”

“No, I never—” replied Jack.

“What’s to be done now?”

“Why, as we’ve got possession, Ned, we had better put a man at the helm—for the speronare is having it all her own way.”

“Very true,” replied Gascoigne; “and as I can steer better than you, I suppose it must be me.”

Gascoigne went to the helm, brought the boat up to the wind, and then they resumed their conversation.

“That rascal of a boy gave me a devil of a lick on the shoulder; I don’t know whether he has hurt me—at all events it’s my left shoulder, so I can steer just as well. I wonder whether the fellows are dead.”

“The padrone is, at all events,” replied Jack. “It was as much as I could do to get my legs from under him—but we’ll wait till daylight before we see to that—in the meantime, I’ll load the pistols again.”

“The day is breaking now—it will be light in half an hour or less. What a devil of a spree, Jack!”

“Yes, but how can one help it? We ran away because two men are wounded—and now we are obliged to kill four in self-defence.”

“Yes, but that is not the end of it; when we get to Sicily what are we to do? we shall be imprisoned by the authorities—perhaps hung.”

“We’ll argue that point with them,” replied Jack.

“We had better argue the point between ourselves, Jack, and see what will be the best plan to get out of our scrape.”

“I think that we just have got out of it—never fear but we’ll get out of the next. Do you know, Gascoigne, it appears to me very odd, but I can do nothing but there’s a bobbery at the bottom of it.”

“You certainly have a great talent that way, Jack. Don’t I hear one of these poor fellows groan?”

“I should think that not impossible.”

“What shall we do with them?”

“We will argue that point, Ned—we must either keep their bodies or we must throw them overboard. Either tell the whole story or say nothing about it.”

“That’s very evident; in short, we must do something, for your argument goes no further. But now let us take up one of your propositions.”

“Well then, suppose we keep the bodies on board, run into a seaport, go to the authorities, and state all the facts, what then?”

“We shall prove, beyond all doubt, that we have killed three men, if not four; but we shall not prove that we were obliged so to do, Jack. And then we are heretics—we shall be put in prison till they are satisfied of our innocence, which we never can prove, and there we shall remain until we have written to Malta, and a man-of-war comes to redeem us, if we are not stabbed, or something else in the meantime.”

“That will not be a very pleasant cruise,” replied Jack. “Now let’s argue the point on the other side.”

“There is some difficulty there—suppose we throw their bodies overboard, toss the baskets after them, wash the boat clean, and make for the first port. We may chance to hit upon the very spot from which they sailed, and then there will be a pack of wives and children, and a populace with knives, asking us what has become of the men of the boat.”

“I don’t much like the idea of that,” said Jack.

“And if we don’t have such bad luck, still we shall be interrogated as to who we are, and how we were adrift by ourselves.”

“There will be a difficulty about that again—we must swear that it is a party of pleasure, and that we are gentlemen yachting.”

“Without a crew or provisions—yachts don’t sail with a clean-swept hold, or gentlemen without a spare shirt—we have nothing but two gallons of water and two pairs of pistols.”

“I have it,” said Jack—“we are two young gentlemen in our own boat who went out to Gozo with pistols to shoot sea-mews, were caught in a gale, and blown down to Sicily—that will excite interest.”

“That’s the best idea yet, as it will account for our having nothing in the boat. Well then, at all events, we will get rid of the bodies; but suppose they are not dead—we cannot throw them overboard alive—that will be murder.”

“Very true,” replied Jack; “then we must shoot them first, and toss them overboard afterwards.”

“Upon my soul, Easy, you are an odd fellow: however, go and examine the men, and we’ll decide that point by-and-bye—you had better keep your pistol ready cocked for they may be shamming.”

“Devil a bit of sham here, anyhow,” replied Jack, pulling at the body of the padrone, “and as for this fellow you shot, you might put your fist into his chest. Now for the third,” continued Jack, stepping over the strengthening piece—“he’s all among the baskets. I say, my cock, are you dead?” and Jack enforced his question with a kick in the ribs. The man groaned. “That’s unlucky, Gascoigne, but, however, I’ll soon settle him,” said Jack, pointing his pistol.

“Stop, Jack,” cried Gascoigne, “it really will be murder.”

“No such thing, Ned; I’ll just blow his brains out, and then I’ll come aft and argue the point with you.”

“Now do oblige me by coming aft and arguing the point first. Do, Jack, I beg of you—I entreat you.”

“With all my heart,” replied Jack, resuming his seat by Gascoigne; “I assert, that in this instance killing’s no murder. You will observe, Ned, that by the laws of society, any one who attempts the life of another has forfeited his own; at the same time, as it is necessary that the fact should be clearly proved and justice be duly administered, the parties are tried, convicted, and then are sentenced to the punishment.”

“I grant all that.”

“In this instance the attempt has been clearly proved; we are the witnesses, and are the judges and jury, and society in general, for the best of all possible reasons, because there is nobody else. These men’s lives being therefore forfeited to society, belong to us; and it does not follow because they were not all killed in the attempt, that therefore they are not now to be brought out for punishment. And as there is no common hangman here, we, of course, must do this duty as well as every other. I have now clearly proved that I am justified in what I am about to do. But the argument does not stop there—self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if we do not get rid of this man, what is the consequence?—that we shall have to account for his being wounded, and then, instead of judges, we shall immediately be placed in the position of culprits, and have to defend ourselves without witnesses. We therefore risk our lives from a misplaced lenity towards a wretch unworthy to live.”

“Your last argument is strong, Easy, but I cannot consent to your doing what may occasion you uneasiness hereafter when you think of it.”

“Pooh! nonsense—I am a philosopher.”

“Of what school, Jack? Oh, I presume you are a disciple of Mesty’s. I do not mean to say that you are wrong, but still hear my proposition. Let us lower down the sail, and then I can leave the helm to assist you. We will clear the vessel of everything except the man who is still alive. At all events, we may wait a little, and if at last there is no help for it, I will then agree with you to launch him overboard, even if he is not quite dead.”

“Agreed; even by your own making out, it will be no great sin. He is half dead already—I only dohalfthe work of tossing him over, so it will be onlyquartermurder on my part, and he would have shown no quarter on his.” Here Jack left off arguing and punning, and went forward and lowered down the sail. “I’ve half a mind to take my doubloons back,” said Jack, as they launched over the body of the padrone, “but he may have them—I wonder whether they’ll ever turn up again?”

“Not in our time, Jack,” replied Gascoigne.

The other body, and all the basket lumber, etcetera, were then tossed over, and the boat was cleared of all but the man who was not yet dead.

“Now let’s examine the fellow, and see if he has any chance of recovery,” said Gascoigne.

The man lay on his side; Gascoigne turned him over, and found that he was dead.

“Over with him, quick,” said Jack, “before he comes to life again.”

The body disappeared under the wave—they again hoisted the sail, Gascoigne took the helm, and our hero proceeded to draw water and wash away the stains of blood; he then cleared the boat of vine-leaves and rubbish, with which it was strewed, swept it clean fore and aft, and resumed his seat by his comrade.

“There,” said Jack, “now we’ve swept the decks, we may pipe to dinner. I wonder whether there is anything to eat in the locker?”

Jack opened it, and found some bread, garlic, sausages, a bottle of aquadente, and a jar of wine.

“So the padrone did keep his promise, after all.”

“Yes, and had you not tempted him with the sight of so much gold, might now have been alive.”

“To which I reply, that if you had not advised our going off in a speronare, he would now have been alive.”

“And if you had not fought a duel, I should not have given the advice.”

“And if the boatswain had not been obliged to come on board without his trousers, at Gibraltar, I should not have fought a duel.”

“And if you had not joined the ship, the boatswain would have had his trousers on.”

“And if my father had not been a philosopher, I should not have gone to sea; so that it is all my father’s fault, and he has killed four men off the coast of Sicily, without knowing it—cause and effect. After all, there’s nothing like argument; so having settled that point, let us go to dinner.”

Having finished their meal, Jack went forward and observed the land ahead; they steered the same course for three or four hours.

“We must haul our wind more,” said Gascoigne; “it will not do to put into any small town: we have now to choose, whether we shall land on the coast and sink the speronare, or land at some large town.”

“We must argue that point,” replied Jack.

“In the meantime, do you take the helm, for my arm is quite tired,” replied Gascoigne: “you can steer well enough; by-the-bye, I may as well look at my shoulder, for it is quite stiff.” Gascoigne pulled off his coat, and found his shirt bloody and sticking to the wound, which, as we before observed, was slight. He again took the helm, while Jack washed it clean and then bathed it with aquadente.

“Now take the helm again,” said Gascoigne; “I’m on the sick list.”

“And as surgeon—I’m an idler,” replied Jack; “but what shall we do?” continued he; “abandon the speronare at night and sink her, or run in for a town?”

“We shall fall in with plenty of boats and vessels if we coast it up to Palermo, and they may overhaul us.”

“We shall fall in with plenty of people if we go on shore, and they will overhaul us.”

“Do you know, Jack, that I wish we were back and alongside of theHarpy;I’ve had cruising enough.”

“My cruises are so unfortunate,” replied Jack; “they are too full of adventure; but then, I have never yet had a cruise on shore. Now, if we could only get to Palermo, we should be out of all our difficulties.”

“The breeze freshens, Jack,” replied Gascoigne; “and it begins to look very dirty to windward. I think we shall have a gale.”

“Pleasant—I know what it is to be short-handed in a gale; however, there’s one comfort, we shall not be blownoff shorethis time.”

“No, but we may be wrecked on a lee shore. She cannot carry her whole sail, Easy; we must lower it down, and take in a reef; the sooner the better, for it will be dark in an hour. Go forward and lower it down, and then I’ll help you.”

Jack did so, but the sail went into the water, and he could not drag it in.

“Avast heaving,” said Gascoigne, “till I throw her up and take the wind out of it.”

This was done; they reefed the sail, but could not hoist it up: if Gascoigne left the helm to help Jack, the sail filled; if he went to the helm and took the wind out of the sail, Jack was not strong enough to hoist it. The wind increased rapidly, and the sea got up; the sun went down, and with the sail half hoisted, they could not keep to the wind, but were obliged to run right for the land. The speronare flew, rising on the crest of the waves with half her keel clear of the water: the moon was already up, and gave them light enough to perceive that they were not five miles from the coast, which was lined with foam.

“At all events, they can’t accuse us of running away with the boat,” observed Jack; “for she’s running away with us.”

“Yes,” replied Gascoigne, dragging at the tiller with all his strength; “she has taken the bit between her teeth.”

“I wouldn’t care if I had a bit between mine,” replied Jack; “for I feel devilish hungry again. What do you say, Ned?”

“With all my heart,” replied Gascoigne; “but, do you know, Easy, it may be the last meal we ever make.”

“Then I vote it’s a good one—but why so, Ned?”

“In half an hour, or thereabouts, we shall be on shore.”

“Well, that’s where we want to go.”

“Yes, but the sea runs high, and the boat may be dashed to pieces on the rocks.”

“Then we shall be asked no questions about her or the men.”

“Very true, but a lee shore is no joke; we may be knocked to pieces, as well as the boat—even swimming may not help us. If we could find a cove or sandy beach, we might, perhaps, manage to get on shore.”

“Well,” replied Jack, “I have not been long at sea, and, of course, cannot know much about these things. I have been blown off shore, but I never have been blown on. It may be as you say, but I do not see the great danger—let’s run her right up on the beach at once.”

“That’s what I shall try to do,” replied Gascoigne, who had been four years at sea, and knew very well what he was about.

Jack handed him a huge piece of bread and sausage.

“Thank ye, I cannot eat.”

“I can,” replied Jack, with his mouth full.

Jack ate while Gascoigne steered; and the rapidity with which the speronare rushed to the beach was almost frightful. She darted like an arrow from wave to wave, and appeared as if mocking their attempts as they curled their summits almost over her narrow stern. They were within a mile of the beach, when Jack, who had finished his supper, and was looking at the foam boiling on the coast, exclaimed:

“That’s very fine—very beautiful, upon my soul!”

“He cares for nothing,” thought Gascoigne; “he appears to have no idea of danger.”

“Now, my dear fellow,” said Gascoigne, “in a few minutes we shall be on the rocks. I must continue at the helm, for the higher she is forced up the better chance for us; but we may not meet again, so if we do not, good-bye, and God bless you.”

“Gascoigne,” said Jack, “you are hurt and I am not; your shoulder is stiff, and you can hardly move your left arm. Now I can steer for the rocks as well as you. Do you go to the bow, and there you will have a better chance. By-the-bye,” continued he, picking up his pistols, and sticking them into his waist, “I won’t leave them, they’ve served us too good a turn already. Gascoigne, give me the helm.”

“No, no, Easy.”

“I say yes,” replied Jack, in a loud, authoritative tone, “and what’s more, I will be obeyed, Gascoigne. I have nerve, if I haven’t knowledge, and at all events I can steer for the beach. I tell you, give me the helm. Well, then, if you won’t—I must take it.”

Easy wrested the tiller from Gascoigne’s hand, and gave him a shove forward.

“Now do you look out ahead, and tell me how to steer.”

Whatever may have been Gascoigne’s feelings at this behaviour of our hero’s, it immediately occurred to him that he could not do better than to run the speronare to the safest point, and that therefore he was probably more advantageously employed than if he were at the helm. He went forward and looked at the rocks, covered at one moment with the tumultuous waters, and then pouring down cascades from their sides as the waves recoiled. He perceived a chasm right ahead, and he thought if the boat was steered for that, she must be thrown up so as to enable them to get clear of her, for at every other part escape appeared impossible.

“Starboard a little—that’ll do. Steady—port it is—port. Steer small, for your life, Easy. Steady now—mind the yard don’t hit your head—hold on.”

The speronare was at this moment thrown into a large cleft in a rock, the sides of which were nearly perpendicular; nothing else could have saved them, as, had they struck the rock outside, the boat would have been dashed to pieces, and its fragments have disappeared in the undertow. As it was, the cleft was not four feet more than the width of the boat, and as the waves hurled her up into it, the yard of the speronare was thrown fore and aft with great violence, and had not Jack been warned, he would have been struck overboard without a chance of being saved; but he crouched down and it passed over him. As the water receded, the boat struck, and was nearly dry between the rocks, but another wave followed, dashing the boat farther up, but, at the same time, filling it with water. The bow of the boat was now several feet higher than the stern, where Jack held on; and the weight of the water in her, with the force of the returning waves, separated her right across abaft the mast. Jack perceived that the after-part of the boat was going out again with the wave; he caught hold of the yard which had swung fore and aft, and as he clung to it, the part of the boat on which he had stood disappeared from under him, and was swept away by the returning current.

Jack required the utmost of his strength to maintain his position until another wave floated him, and dashed him higher up: but he knew his life depended on holding on to the yard, which he did, although under water, and advanced several feet. When the wave receded, he found footing on the rock, and still clinging, he walked till he had gained the fore-part of the boat, which was wedged firmly into a narrow part of the cleft. The next wave was not very large, and he had gained so much that it did not throw him off his legs. He reached the rock, and as he climbed up the side of the chasm to gain the ledge above, he perceived Gascoigne standing above him, and holding out his hand to his assistance.

“Well,” says Jack, shaking himself to get rid of the water, “here we are, ashore at last—I had no idea of anything like this. The rush back of the water was so strong that it has almost torn my arms out of their sockets. How very lucky I sent you forward with your disabled shoulder. By-the-bye, now that it’s all over, and you must see that I was right, I beg to apologise for my rudeness.”

“There needs no apology for saving my life, Easy,” replied Gascoigne, trembling with the cold; “and no one but you would ever have thought of making one at such a moment.”

“I wonder whether the ammunition’s dry,” said Jack; “I put it all in my hat.”

Jack took off his hat, and found the cartridges had not suffered.

“Now then, Gascoigne, what shall we do?”

“I hardly know,” replied Gascoigne.

“Suppose, then, we sit down and argue the point.”

“No, I thank you, there will be too much cold water thrown upon our arguments—I’m half dead; let us walk on.”

“With all my heart,” said Jack, “it’s devilish steep, but I can argue up hill or down hill, wet or dry—I’m used to it—for, as I told you before, Ned, my father is a philosopher, and so am I.”

“By the Lord!you are,” replied Gascoigne, as he walked on.

Chapter Nineteen.In which our hero follows his destiny and forms a tableau.Our hero and his comrade climbed the precipice, and, after some minutes’ severe toil, arrived at the summit, when they sat down to recover themselves. The sky was clear, although the gale blew strong. They had an extensive view of the coast, lashed by the angry waves.“It’s my opinion, Ned,” said Jack, as he surveyed the expanse of troubled water, “that we’re just as well out of that.”“I agree with you, Jack; but it’s also my opinion that we should be just as well out of this, for the wind blows through one. Suppose we go a little farther inland, where we may find some shelter till the morning.”“It’s rather dark to find anything,” rejoined our hero; “but, however, a westerly gale on the top of a mountain with wet clothes in the middle of the night with nothing to eat or drink, is not the most comfortable position in the world, and we may change for the better.”They proceed over a flat of a hundred yards, and then descended—the change in the atmosphere was immediate. As they continued their march inland, they came to a high-road, which appeared to run along the shore, and they turned into it; for, as Jack said very truly, a road must lead to something. After a quarter of an hour’s walk, they again heard the rolling of the surf, and perceived the white walls of houses.“Here we are at last,” said Jack. “I wonder if any one will turn out to take us in, or shall we stow away for the night in one of those vessels hauled up on the beach?”“Recollect this time, Easy,” said Gascoigne, “not to show your money; that is, show only a dollar, and say you have no more, or promise to pay when we arrive at Palermo; and if they will neither trust us, nor give to us, we must make it out as we can.”“How the cursed dogs bark! I think we shall do very well this time, Gascoigne: we do not look as if we were worth robbing, at all events, and we have the pistols to defend ourselves with if we are attacked. Depend upon it I will show no more gold. And now let us make our arrangements. Take you one pistol, and take half the gold—I have it all in my right-hand pocket—my dollars and pistarenes in my left. You shall take half of them too. We have silver enough to go on with till we are in a safe place.”Jack then divided the money in the dark, and also gave Gascoigne a pistol.“Now then, shall we knock for admittance?—Let’s first walk through the village, and see if there’s anything like an inn. Those yelping curs will soon be at our heels; they come nearer and nearer every time. There’s a cart, and it’s full of straw—suppose we go to bed till to-morrow morning—we shall be warm, at all events.”“Yes,” replied Gascoigne, “and sleep much better than in any of the cottages. I have been in Sicily before, and you have no idea how the fleas bite.”Our two midshipmen climbed up into the cart, nestled themselves into the straw, or rather Indian corn-leaves, and were soon fast asleep. As they had not slept for two nights, it is not to be wondered at that they slept soundly—so soundly, indeed, that about two hours after they had got into their comfortable bed, the peasant, who had brought to the village some casks of wine to be shipped and taken down the coast in a felucca, yoked his bullocks, and not being aware of his freight, drove off without, in any way, disturbing their repose, although the roads in Sicily are not yet macadamised.The jolting of the roads rather increased than disturbed the sleep of our adventurers; and, although there were some rude shocks, it only had the effect of making them fancy in their dreams that they were again in the boat, and that she was still dashing against the rocks. In about two hours, the cart arrived at its destination—the peasant unyoked his bullocks and led them away. The same cause will often produce contrary effects: the stopping of the motion of the cart disturbed the rest of our two midshipmen; they turned round in the straw, yawned, spread out their arms, and then awoke. Gascoigne, who felt considerable pain in his shoulder, was the first to recall his scattered senses.“Easy,” cried he, as he sat up and shook off the corn-leaves.“Port it is,” said Jack, half dreaming.“Come, Easy, you are not on board now. Rouse and bitt.”Jack then sat up and looked at Gascoigne. The forage in the cart was so high round them that they could not see above it; they rubbed their eyes, yawned, and looked at each other.“Have you any faith in dreams,” said Jack to Gascoigne, “because I had a very queer one last night.”“Well, so had I,” replied Gascoigne. “I dreamt that the cart rolled by itself into the sea, and went away with us right in the wind’s eye back to Malta; and, considering that it never was built for such service, she behaved uncommonly well. Now what was your dream?”“Mine was, that we woke up and found ourselves in the very town from which the speronare had sailed, and that they had found the fore-part of the speronare among the rocks, and recognised her, and picked up one of our pistols. That they had laid hold of us, and had insisted that we had been thrown on shore in the boat, and asked us what had become of the crew—they were just seizing us, when I awoke.”“Your dream is more likely to come true than mine, Easy; but still I think we need not fear that. At the same time, we had better not remain here any longer; and it occurs to me, that if we tore our clothes more, it would be advisable—we shall, in the first place, look more wretched; and, in the next place, can replace them with the dress of the country, and so travel without exciting suspicion. You know that I can speak Italian pretty well.”“I have no objection to tear my clothes if you wish,” replied Jack; “at the same time give me your pistol; I will draw the charges and load them again. They must be wet.”Having reloaded the pistols and rent their garments, the two midshipmen stood up in the cart and looked about them.“Halloo!—why, how’s this, Gascoigne? last night we were close to the beach, and among houses, and now—where the devil are we? You dreamt nearer the mark than I did, for the cart has certainly taken a cruise.”“We must have slept like midshipmen, then,” replied Gascoigne: “surely it cannot have gone far.”“Here we are, surrounded by hills on every side, for at least a couple of miles. Surely some good genius has transported us into the interior, that we might escape from the relatives of the crew whom I dreamt about,” said Jack, looking at Gascoigne.As it afterwards was known to them, the speronare had sailed from the very seaport in which they had arrived that night, and where they had got into the cart. The wreck of the speronare had been found, and had been recognised, and it was considered by the inhabitants that the padrone and his crew had perished in the gale. Had they found our two midshipmen and questioned them, it is not improbable that suspicion might have been excited, and the results have been such as our hero had conjured up in his dream. But, as we said before, there is a peculiar providence for midshipmen.On a minute survey, they found that they were in an open space which, apparently, had been used for thrashing and winnowing maize, and that the cart was standing under a clump of trees in the shade.“There ought to be a house hereabouts,” said Gascoigne; “I should think that behind the trees we shall find one. Come, Jack, you are as hungry as I am, I’ll answer for it; we must look out for a breakfast somewhere.”“If they won’t give us something to eat, or sell it,” replied Jack, who was ravenous, clutching his pistol, “I shall take it—I consider it no robbery. The fruits of the earth were made for us all, and it never was intended that one man should have a superfluity and another starve. The laws of equality—”“May appear very good arguments to a starving man, I grant, but still, won’t prevent his fellow creatures from hanging him,” replied Gascoigne. “None of your confounded nonsense, Jack; no man starves with money in his pocket, and as long as you have that, leave those that have none to talk about equality and the rights of man.”“I should like to argue that point with you, Gascoigne.”“Tell me, do you prefer sitting down here to argue, or to look out for some breakfast, Jack?”“Oh, the argument may be put off, but hunger cannot.”“That’s very good philosophy, Jack, so let’s go on.”They went through the copse of wood, which was very thick, and soon discovered the wall of a large house on the other side.“All right,” said Jack; “but still let us reconnoitre. It’s not a farm-house; it must belong to a person of some consequence—all the better—they will see that we are gentlemen, notwithstanding our tattered dress. I suppose we are to stick to the story of the sea-mews at Gozo?”“Yes,” replied Gascoigne; “I can think of nothing better. But the English are well received in this island; we have troops at Palermo.”“Have we? I wish I was sitting down at the mess-table—but what’s that? a woman screaming?—Yes, by heavens!—come along, Ned.” And away dashed Jack towards the house, followed by Gascoigne. As they advanced the screams redoubled; they entered the porch, burst into the room from whence they proceeded, and found an elderly gentleman defending himself against two young men, who were held back by an elderly and a young lady. Our hero and his comrade had both drawn their pistols, and just as they burst open the door, the old gentleman who defended himself against such odds had fallen down. The two others burst from the women, and were about to pierce him with their swords, when Jack seized one by the collar of his coat and held him fast, pointing the muzzle of the pistol to his ear: Gascoigne did the same to the other. It was a very dramatic tableau. The two women flew to the elderly gentleman and raised him up; the two assailants being held just as dogs hold pigs by the ear, trembling with fright, with the points of their rapiers dropped, looked at the midshipmen and the muzzles of their pistols with equal dismay; at the same time, the astonishment of the elderly gentleman and the women, at such an unexpected deliverance, was equally great. There was a silence for a few seconds.“Ned,” at last said Jack, “tell these chaps to drop their swords, or we fire.”Gascoigne gave the order in Italian, and it was complied with. The midshipmen then possessed themselves of the rapiers, and gave the young men their liberty.The elderly gentleman at last broke the silence.“It would appear, signors, that there was an especial interference of Providence, to prevent you from committing a foul and unjust murder. Who these are that have so opportunely come to my rescue, I know not, but thanking them as I do now, I think that you will yourselves, when you are calm, also thank them for having prevented you from committing an act which would have loaded you with remorse and embittered your future existence. Gentlemen, you are free to depart: you, Don Silvio, have indeed disappointed me; your gratitude should have rendered you incapable of such conduct: as for you, Don Scipio, you have been misled; but you both have, in one point, disgraced yourselves. Ten days back my sons were both here—why did you not come then? If you sought revenge on me, you could not have inflicted it deeper than through my children, and at least you would not have acted the part of assassins in attacking an old man. Take your swords, gentlemen, and use them better henceforth. Against future attacks I shall be well prepared.”Gascoigne, who perfectly understood what was said, presented the sword to the young gentleman from whom he had taken it—our hero did the same. The two young men returned them to their sheaths, and quitted the room without saying a word.“Whoever you are, I owe to you and thank you for my life,” said the elderly gentleman, scanning the outward appearance of our two midshipmen.“We are,” said Gascoigne, “officers in the English navy, and gentlemen; we were wrecked in our boat last night, and have wandered here in the dark, seeking for assistance, and food, and some conveyance to Palermo, where we shall find friends, and the means of appearing like gentlemen.”“Was your ship wrecked, gentlemen?” inquired the Sicilian, “and many lives lost?”“No, our ship is at Malta; we were in a boat on a party of pleasure, were caught by a gale, and driven on the coast. To satisfy you of the truth, observe that our pistols have the king’s mark, and that we are not paupers, we show you gold.”Gascoigne pulled out his doubloons—and Jack did the same, coolly observing:“I thought we were only to show silver, Ned!”“It needed not that,” replied the gentleman; “your conduct in this affair, your manners and address, fully convince me that you are what you represent—but were you common peasants, I am equally indebted to you for my life, and you may command me. Tell me in what way I can be of service.”“In giving us something to eat, for we have had nothing for many, many hours. After that we may, perhaps, trespass a little more upon your kind offices.”“You must, of course, be surprised at what has passed, and curious to know the occasion,” said the gentleman; “you have a right to be informed of it, and shall be, as soon as you are more comfortable; in the meantime, allow me to introduce myself as Don Rebiera de Silva.”“I wish,” said Jack, who, from his knowledge of Spanish, could understand the whole of the last part of the Don’s speech, “that he would introduce us to his breakfast.”“So do I,” said Gascoigne; “but we must wait a little—he ordered the ladies to prepare something instantly.”“Your friend does not speak Italian,” said Don Rebiera.“No, Don Rebiera, he speaks French and Spanish.”“If he speaks Spanish my daughter can converse with him; she has but shortly arrived from Spain. We are closely united with a noble house in that country.”Don Rebiera then led the way to another room, and in a short time there was a repast brought in, to which our midshipmen did great justice.“I will now,” said the Don, “relate to you, sir, for the information of yourself and friend, the causes which produced this scene of violence, which you so opportunely defeated. But first, as it must be very tedious to your friend, I will send for Donna Clara and my daughter Agnes to talk to him; my wife understands a little Spanish, and my daughter, as I said before, has but just left the country, where, from circumstances, she remained some years.”As soon as Donna Clara and Donna Agnes made their appearance and were introduced, Jack, who had not before paid attention to them, said to himself, “I have seen a face like that girl’s before.” If so, he had never seen many like it, for it was the quintessence of brunette beauty, and her figure was equally perfect; although, not having yet completed her fifteenth year, it required still a little more development.Donna Clara was extremely gracious, and as, perhaps, she was aware that her voice would drown that of her husband, she proposed to our hero to walk in the garden, and in a few minutes they took their seats in a pavilion at the end of it. The old lady did not talk much Spanish, but when at a loss for a word she put in an Italian one, and Jack understood her perfectly well. She told him her sister had married a Spanish nobleman many years since, and that before the war broke out between the Spanish and the English, they had gone over with all their children to see her; that when they wished to return, her daughter Agnes, then a child, was suffering under a lingering complaint, and it was thought advisable, as she was very weak, to leave her under the charge of her aunt, who had a little girl of nearly the same age; that they were educated together at a convent near Tarragona, and that she had only returned two months ago; that she had a very narrow escape, as the ship in which her uncle, and aunt, and cousins, as well as herself, were on board, returning from Genoa, where her brother-in-law had been obliged to go to secure a succession to some property bequeathed to him, had been captured in the night by the English; but the officer, who was very polite, had allowed them to go away next day, and very handsomely permitted them to take all their effects.“Oh, oh,” thought Jack; “I thought I had seen her face before; this then was one of the girls in the corner of the cabin—now, I’ll have some fun.”During the conversation with the mother, Donna Agnes had remained some paces behind, picking now and then a flower, and not attending to what passed.When our hero and her mother sat down in the pavilion she joined them, when Jack addressed her with his usual politeness.“I am almost ashamed to be sitting by you, Donna Agnes, in this ragged dress—but the rocks of your coast have no respect for persons.”“We are under great obligations, signor, and do not regard such trifles.”“You are all kindness, signora,” replied Jack; “I little thought this morning of my good fortune—I can tell the fortunes of others, but not of my own.”“You can tell fortunes!” replied the old lady.“Yes, madam, I am famous for it—shall I tell your daughter hers?”Donna Agnes looked at our hero, and smiled.“I perceive that the young lady does not believe me; I must prove my art, by telling her of what has already happened to her. The signora will then give me credit.”“Certainly, if you do that,” replied Agnes.“Oblige me, by showing me the palm of your hand.”Agnes extended her little hand, and Jack felt so very polite, that he was nearly kissing it. However, he restrained himself, and examining the lines:“That you were educated in Spain—that you arrived here but two months ago—that you were captured and released by the English, your mother has already told me; but to prove to you that I knew all that, I must now be more particular. You were in a ship mounting fourteen guns—was it not so?”Donna Agnes nodded her head.“I never told the signor that,” cried Donna Clara. “She was taken by surprise in the night, and there was no fighting. The next morning the English burst open the cabin door; your uncle and your cousin fired their pistols.”“Holy Virgin!” cried Agnes, with surprise.“The English officer was a young man, not very good-looking.”“There you are wrong, signor; he was very handsome.”“There is no accounting for taste, signora; you were frightened out of your wits, and with your cousin you crouched down in the corner of the cabin. Let me examine that little line closer—you had—yes, it’s no mistake, you had very little clothes on.”Agnes tore away her hand and covered her face.“E vero, è vero; Holy Jesus! how could you know that?”Of a sudden Agnes looked at our hero, and after a minute appeared to recognise him.“Oh, mother, ’tis he—I recollect now, ’tis he!”“Who, my child?” replied Donna Clara, who had been struck dumb with Jack’s astonishing power of fortune-telling.“The officer who captured us, and was so kind.”Jack burst out into laughter, not to be controlled for some minutes, an then acknowledged that she had discovered him.“At all events, Donna Agnes,” said he at last, “acknowledge that, ragged as I am, I have seen you in a much greater deshabille.”Agnes sprang up and took to her heels, that she might hide her confusion, and at the same time go to her father and tell him who he had as his guest.Although Don Rebiera had not yet finished his narrative, this announcement of Agnes, who ran in breathless to communicate it, immediately brought all the parties together, and Jack received their thanks.“I little thought,” said the Don, “that I should have been so doubly indebted to you, sir. Command my services as you please, both of you. My sons are at Palermo, and I trust you will allow them the pleasure of your friendship when you are tired of remaining with us.”Jack made his politest bow, and then with a shrug of his shoulders, looked down upon his habiliments, which, to please Gascoigne, he had torn into ribands, as much as to say, We are not provided for a lengthened stay.“My brothers’ clothes will fit them, I think,” said Agnes to her father; “they have left plenty in their wardrobes.”“If the signors will condescend to wear them till they can replace their own.”Midshipmen are very condescending—they followed Don Rebiera, and condescended to put on clean shirts belonging to Don Philip and Don Martin; also to put on their trousers—to select their best waistcoats and coats—in short, they condescended to have a regular fit-out—and it so happened that the fit-out was not far from a regularfit.Having condescended, they then descended, and the intimacy between all parties became so great that it appeared as if they not only wore the young men’s clothes, but also stood in their shoes. Having thus made themselves presentable, Jack presented his hand to both ladies, and led them into the garden, that Don Rebiera might finish his long story to Gascoigne without further interruption, and resuming their seats in the pavilion, he entertained the ladies with a history of his cruise in the ship after her capture. Agnes soon recovered from her reserve, and Jack had the forbearance not to allude again to the scene in the cabin, which was the only thing she dreaded. After dinner, when the family, according to custom, had retired for the siesta, Gascoigne and Jack, who had slept enough in the cart to last for a week, went out together in the garden.“Well, Ned,” said Jack, “do you wish yourself on board theHarpyagain?”“No,” replied Gascoigne; “we have fallen on our feet at last, but still not without first being knocked about like peas in a rattle. What a lovely little creature that Agnes is! How strange that you should fall in with her again! How odd that we should come here!”“My good fellow, we did not come here. Destiny brought us in a cart. She may take us to Tyburn in the same way.”“Yes, if you sport your philosophy as you did when we awoke this morning.”“Nevertheless, I’ll be hanged if I’m not right. Suppose we argue the point?”“Right or wrong, you will be hanged, Jack; so instead of arguing the point, suppose I tell you what the Don made such a long story about.”“With all my heart; let us go to the pavilion.”Our hero and his friend took their seats, and Gascoigne then communicated the history of Don Rebiera, to which we shall dedicate the ensuing chapter.

Our hero and his comrade climbed the precipice, and, after some minutes’ severe toil, arrived at the summit, when they sat down to recover themselves. The sky was clear, although the gale blew strong. They had an extensive view of the coast, lashed by the angry waves.

“It’s my opinion, Ned,” said Jack, as he surveyed the expanse of troubled water, “that we’re just as well out of that.”

“I agree with you, Jack; but it’s also my opinion that we should be just as well out of this, for the wind blows through one. Suppose we go a little farther inland, where we may find some shelter till the morning.”

“It’s rather dark to find anything,” rejoined our hero; “but, however, a westerly gale on the top of a mountain with wet clothes in the middle of the night with nothing to eat or drink, is not the most comfortable position in the world, and we may change for the better.”

They proceed over a flat of a hundred yards, and then descended—the change in the atmosphere was immediate. As they continued their march inland, they came to a high-road, which appeared to run along the shore, and they turned into it; for, as Jack said very truly, a road must lead to something. After a quarter of an hour’s walk, they again heard the rolling of the surf, and perceived the white walls of houses.

“Here we are at last,” said Jack. “I wonder if any one will turn out to take us in, or shall we stow away for the night in one of those vessels hauled up on the beach?”

“Recollect this time, Easy,” said Gascoigne, “not to show your money; that is, show only a dollar, and say you have no more, or promise to pay when we arrive at Palermo; and if they will neither trust us, nor give to us, we must make it out as we can.”

“How the cursed dogs bark! I think we shall do very well this time, Gascoigne: we do not look as if we were worth robbing, at all events, and we have the pistols to defend ourselves with if we are attacked. Depend upon it I will show no more gold. And now let us make our arrangements. Take you one pistol, and take half the gold—I have it all in my right-hand pocket—my dollars and pistarenes in my left. You shall take half of them too. We have silver enough to go on with till we are in a safe place.”

Jack then divided the money in the dark, and also gave Gascoigne a pistol.

“Now then, shall we knock for admittance?—Let’s first walk through the village, and see if there’s anything like an inn. Those yelping curs will soon be at our heels; they come nearer and nearer every time. There’s a cart, and it’s full of straw—suppose we go to bed till to-morrow morning—we shall be warm, at all events.”

“Yes,” replied Gascoigne, “and sleep much better than in any of the cottages. I have been in Sicily before, and you have no idea how the fleas bite.”

Our two midshipmen climbed up into the cart, nestled themselves into the straw, or rather Indian corn-leaves, and were soon fast asleep. As they had not slept for two nights, it is not to be wondered at that they slept soundly—so soundly, indeed, that about two hours after they had got into their comfortable bed, the peasant, who had brought to the village some casks of wine to be shipped and taken down the coast in a felucca, yoked his bullocks, and not being aware of his freight, drove off without, in any way, disturbing their repose, although the roads in Sicily are not yet macadamised.

The jolting of the roads rather increased than disturbed the sleep of our adventurers; and, although there were some rude shocks, it only had the effect of making them fancy in their dreams that they were again in the boat, and that she was still dashing against the rocks. In about two hours, the cart arrived at its destination—the peasant unyoked his bullocks and led them away. The same cause will often produce contrary effects: the stopping of the motion of the cart disturbed the rest of our two midshipmen; they turned round in the straw, yawned, spread out their arms, and then awoke. Gascoigne, who felt considerable pain in his shoulder, was the first to recall his scattered senses.

“Easy,” cried he, as he sat up and shook off the corn-leaves.

“Port it is,” said Jack, half dreaming.

“Come, Easy, you are not on board now. Rouse and bitt.”

Jack then sat up and looked at Gascoigne. The forage in the cart was so high round them that they could not see above it; they rubbed their eyes, yawned, and looked at each other.

“Have you any faith in dreams,” said Jack to Gascoigne, “because I had a very queer one last night.”

“Well, so had I,” replied Gascoigne. “I dreamt that the cart rolled by itself into the sea, and went away with us right in the wind’s eye back to Malta; and, considering that it never was built for such service, she behaved uncommonly well. Now what was your dream?”

“Mine was, that we woke up and found ourselves in the very town from which the speronare had sailed, and that they had found the fore-part of the speronare among the rocks, and recognised her, and picked up one of our pistols. That they had laid hold of us, and had insisted that we had been thrown on shore in the boat, and asked us what had become of the crew—they were just seizing us, when I awoke.”

“Your dream is more likely to come true than mine, Easy; but still I think we need not fear that. At the same time, we had better not remain here any longer; and it occurs to me, that if we tore our clothes more, it would be advisable—we shall, in the first place, look more wretched; and, in the next place, can replace them with the dress of the country, and so travel without exciting suspicion. You know that I can speak Italian pretty well.”

“I have no objection to tear my clothes if you wish,” replied Jack; “at the same time give me your pistol; I will draw the charges and load them again. They must be wet.”

Having reloaded the pistols and rent their garments, the two midshipmen stood up in the cart and looked about them.

“Halloo!—why, how’s this, Gascoigne? last night we were close to the beach, and among houses, and now—where the devil are we? You dreamt nearer the mark than I did, for the cart has certainly taken a cruise.”

“We must have slept like midshipmen, then,” replied Gascoigne: “surely it cannot have gone far.”

“Here we are, surrounded by hills on every side, for at least a couple of miles. Surely some good genius has transported us into the interior, that we might escape from the relatives of the crew whom I dreamt about,” said Jack, looking at Gascoigne.

As it afterwards was known to them, the speronare had sailed from the very seaport in which they had arrived that night, and where they had got into the cart. The wreck of the speronare had been found, and had been recognised, and it was considered by the inhabitants that the padrone and his crew had perished in the gale. Had they found our two midshipmen and questioned them, it is not improbable that suspicion might have been excited, and the results have been such as our hero had conjured up in his dream. But, as we said before, there is a peculiar providence for midshipmen.

On a minute survey, they found that they were in an open space which, apparently, had been used for thrashing and winnowing maize, and that the cart was standing under a clump of trees in the shade.

“There ought to be a house hereabouts,” said Gascoigne; “I should think that behind the trees we shall find one. Come, Jack, you are as hungry as I am, I’ll answer for it; we must look out for a breakfast somewhere.”

“If they won’t give us something to eat, or sell it,” replied Jack, who was ravenous, clutching his pistol, “I shall take it—I consider it no robbery. The fruits of the earth were made for us all, and it never was intended that one man should have a superfluity and another starve. The laws of equality—”

“May appear very good arguments to a starving man, I grant, but still, won’t prevent his fellow creatures from hanging him,” replied Gascoigne. “None of your confounded nonsense, Jack; no man starves with money in his pocket, and as long as you have that, leave those that have none to talk about equality and the rights of man.”

“I should like to argue that point with you, Gascoigne.”

“Tell me, do you prefer sitting down here to argue, or to look out for some breakfast, Jack?”

“Oh, the argument may be put off, but hunger cannot.”

“That’s very good philosophy, Jack, so let’s go on.”

They went through the copse of wood, which was very thick, and soon discovered the wall of a large house on the other side.

“All right,” said Jack; “but still let us reconnoitre. It’s not a farm-house; it must belong to a person of some consequence—all the better—they will see that we are gentlemen, notwithstanding our tattered dress. I suppose we are to stick to the story of the sea-mews at Gozo?”

“Yes,” replied Gascoigne; “I can think of nothing better. But the English are well received in this island; we have troops at Palermo.”

“Have we? I wish I was sitting down at the mess-table—but what’s that? a woman screaming?—Yes, by heavens!—come along, Ned.” And away dashed Jack towards the house, followed by Gascoigne. As they advanced the screams redoubled; they entered the porch, burst into the room from whence they proceeded, and found an elderly gentleman defending himself against two young men, who were held back by an elderly and a young lady. Our hero and his comrade had both drawn their pistols, and just as they burst open the door, the old gentleman who defended himself against such odds had fallen down. The two others burst from the women, and were about to pierce him with their swords, when Jack seized one by the collar of his coat and held him fast, pointing the muzzle of the pistol to his ear: Gascoigne did the same to the other. It was a very dramatic tableau. The two women flew to the elderly gentleman and raised him up; the two assailants being held just as dogs hold pigs by the ear, trembling with fright, with the points of their rapiers dropped, looked at the midshipmen and the muzzles of their pistols with equal dismay; at the same time, the astonishment of the elderly gentleman and the women, at such an unexpected deliverance, was equally great. There was a silence for a few seconds.

“Ned,” at last said Jack, “tell these chaps to drop their swords, or we fire.”

Gascoigne gave the order in Italian, and it was complied with. The midshipmen then possessed themselves of the rapiers, and gave the young men their liberty.

The elderly gentleman at last broke the silence.

“It would appear, signors, that there was an especial interference of Providence, to prevent you from committing a foul and unjust murder. Who these are that have so opportunely come to my rescue, I know not, but thanking them as I do now, I think that you will yourselves, when you are calm, also thank them for having prevented you from committing an act which would have loaded you with remorse and embittered your future existence. Gentlemen, you are free to depart: you, Don Silvio, have indeed disappointed me; your gratitude should have rendered you incapable of such conduct: as for you, Don Scipio, you have been misled; but you both have, in one point, disgraced yourselves. Ten days back my sons were both here—why did you not come then? If you sought revenge on me, you could not have inflicted it deeper than through my children, and at least you would not have acted the part of assassins in attacking an old man. Take your swords, gentlemen, and use them better henceforth. Against future attacks I shall be well prepared.”

Gascoigne, who perfectly understood what was said, presented the sword to the young gentleman from whom he had taken it—our hero did the same. The two young men returned them to their sheaths, and quitted the room without saying a word.

“Whoever you are, I owe to you and thank you for my life,” said the elderly gentleman, scanning the outward appearance of our two midshipmen.

“We are,” said Gascoigne, “officers in the English navy, and gentlemen; we were wrecked in our boat last night, and have wandered here in the dark, seeking for assistance, and food, and some conveyance to Palermo, where we shall find friends, and the means of appearing like gentlemen.”

“Was your ship wrecked, gentlemen?” inquired the Sicilian, “and many lives lost?”

“No, our ship is at Malta; we were in a boat on a party of pleasure, were caught by a gale, and driven on the coast. To satisfy you of the truth, observe that our pistols have the king’s mark, and that we are not paupers, we show you gold.”

Gascoigne pulled out his doubloons—and Jack did the same, coolly observing:

“I thought we were only to show silver, Ned!”

“It needed not that,” replied the gentleman; “your conduct in this affair, your manners and address, fully convince me that you are what you represent—but were you common peasants, I am equally indebted to you for my life, and you may command me. Tell me in what way I can be of service.”

“In giving us something to eat, for we have had nothing for many, many hours. After that we may, perhaps, trespass a little more upon your kind offices.”

“You must, of course, be surprised at what has passed, and curious to know the occasion,” said the gentleman; “you have a right to be informed of it, and shall be, as soon as you are more comfortable; in the meantime, allow me to introduce myself as Don Rebiera de Silva.”

“I wish,” said Jack, who, from his knowledge of Spanish, could understand the whole of the last part of the Don’s speech, “that he would introduce us to his breakfast.”

“So do I,” said Gascoigne; “but we must wait a little—he ordered the ladies to prepare something instantly.”

“Your friend does not speak Italian,” said Don Rebiera.

“No, Don Rebiera, he speaks French and Spanish.”

“If he speaks Spanish my daughter can converse with him; she has but shortly arrived from Spain. We are closely united with a noble house in that country.”

Don Rebiera then led the way to another room, and in a short time there was a repast brought in, to which our midshipmen did great justice.

“I will now,” said the Don, “relate to you, sir, for the information of yourself and friend, the causes which produced this scene of violence, which you so opportunely defeated. But first, as it must be very tedious to your friend, I will send for Donna Clara and my daughter Agnes to talk to him; my wife understands a little Spanish, and my daughter, as I said before, has but just left the country, where, from circumstances, she remained some years.”

As soon as Donna Clara and Donna Agnes made their appearance and were introduced, Jack, who had not before paid attention to them, said to himself, “I have seen a face like that girl’s before.” If so, he had never seen many like it, for it was the quintessence of brunette beauty, and her figure was equally perfect; although, not having yet completed her fifteenth year, it required still a little more development.

Donna Clara was extremely gracious, and as, perhaps, she was aware that her voice would drown that of her husband, she proposed to our hero to walk in the garden, and in a few minutes they took their seats in a pavilion at the end of it. The old lady did not talk much Spanish, but when at a loss for a word she put in an Italian one, and Jack understood her perfectly well. She told him her sister had married a Spanish nobleman many years since, and that before the war broke out between the Spanish and the English, they had gone over with all their children to see her; that when they wished to return, her daughter Agnes, then a child, was suffering under a lingering complaint, and it was thought advisable, as she was very weak, to leave her under the charge of her aunt, who had a little girl of nearly the same age; that they were educated together at a convent near Tarragona, and that she had only returned two months ago; that she had a very narrow escape, as the ship in which her uncle, and aunt, and cousins, as well as herself, were on board, returning from Genoa, where her brother-in-law had been obliged to go to secure a succession to some property bequeathed to him, had been captured in the night by the English; but the officer, who was very polite, had allowed them to go away next day, and very handsomely permitted them to take all their effects.

“Oh, oh,” thought Jack; “I thought I had seen her face before; this then was one of the girls in the corner of the cabin—now, I’ll have some fun.”

During the conversation with the mother, Donna Agnes had remained some paces behind, picking now and then a flower, and not attending to what passed.

When our hero and her mother sat down in the pavilion she joined them, when Jack addressed her with his usual politeness.

“I am almost ashamed to be sitting by you, Donna Agnes, in this ragged dress—but the rocks of your coast have no respect for persons.”

“We are under great obligations, signor, and do not regard such trifles.”

“You are all kindness, signora,” replied Jack; “I little thought this morning of my good fortune—I can tell the fortunes of others, but not of my own.”

“You can tell fortunes!” replied the old lady.

“Yes, madam, I am famous for it—shall I tell your daughter hers?”

Donna Agnes looked at our hero, and smiled.

“I perceive that the young lady does not believe me; I must prove my art, by telling her of what has already happened to her. The signora will then give me credit.”

“Certainly, if you do that,” replied Agnes.

“Oblige me, by showing me the palm of your hand.”

Agnes extended her little hand, and Jack felt so very polite, that he was nearly kissing it. However, he restrained himself, and examining the lines:

“That you were educated in Spain—that you arrived here but two months ago—that you were captured and released by the English, your mother has already told me; but to prove to you that I knew all that, I must now be more particular. You were in a ship mounting fourteen guns—was it not so?”

Donna Agnes nodded her head.

“I never told the signor that,” cried Donna Clara. “She was taken by surprise in the night, and there was no fighting. The next morning the English burst open the cabin door; your uncle and your cousin fired their pistols.”

“Holy Virgin!” cried Agnes, with surprise.

“The English officer was a young man, not very good-looking.”

“There you are wrong, signor; he was very handsome.”

“There is no accounting for taste, signora; you were frightened out of your wits, and with your cousin you crouched down in the corner of the cabin. Let me examine that little line closer—you had—yes, it’s no mistake, you had very little clothes on.”

Agnes tore away her hand and covered her face.

“E vero, è vero; Holy Jesus! how could you know that?”

Of a sudden Agnes looked at our hero, and after a minute appeared to recognise him.

“Oh, mother, ’tis he—I recollect now, ’tis he!”

“Who, my child?” replied Donna Clara, who had been struck dumb with Jack’s astonishing power of fortune-telling.

“The officer who captured us, and was so kind.”

Jack burst out into laughter, not to be controlled for some minutes, an then acknowledged that she had discovered him.

“At all events, Donna Agnes,” said he at last, “acknowledge that, ragged as I am, I have seen you in a much greater deshabille.”

Agnes sprang up and took to her heels, that she might hide her confusion, and at the same time go to her father and tell him who he had as his guest.

Although Don Rebiera had not yet finished his narrative, this announcement of Agnes, who ran in breathless to communicate it, immediately brought all the parties together, and Jack received their thanks.

“I little thought,” said the Don, “that I should have been so doubly indebted to you, sir. Command my services as you please, both of you. My sons are at Palermo, and I trust you will allow them the pleasure of your friendship when you are tired of remaining with us.”

Jack made his politest bow, and then with a shrug of his shoulders, looked down upon his habiliments, which, to please Gascoigne, he had torn into ribands, as much as to say, We are not provided for a lengthened stay.

“My brothers’ clothes will fit them, I think,” said Agnes to her father; “they have left plenty in their wardrobes.”

“If the signors will condescend to wear them till they can replace their own.”

Midshipmen are very condescending—they followed Don Rebiera, and condescended to put on clean shirts belonging to Don Philip and Don Martin; also to put on their trousers—to select their best waistcoats and coats—in short, they condescended to have a regular fit-out—and it so happened that the fit-out was not far from a regularfit.

Having condescended, they then descended, and the intimacy between all parties became so great that it appeared as if they not only wore the young men’s clothes, but also stood in their shoes. Having thus made themselves presentable, Jack presented his hand to both ladies, and led them into the garden, that Don Rebiera might finish his long story to Gascoigne without further interruption, and resuming their seats in the pavilion, he entertained the ladies with a history of his cruise in the ship after her capture. Agnes soon recovered from her reserve, and Jack had the forbearance not to allude again to the scene in the cabin, which was the only thing she dreaded. After dinner, when the family, according to custom, had retired for the siesta, Gascoigne and Jack, who had slept enough in the cart to last for a week, went out together in the garden.

“Well, Ned,” said Jack, “do you wish yourself on board theHarpyagain?”

“No,” replied Gascoigne; “we have fallen on our feet at last, but still not without first being knocked about like peas in a rattle. What a lovely little creature that Agnes is! How strange that you should fall in with her again! How odd that we should come here!”

“My good fellow, we did not come here. Destiny brought us in a cart. She may take us to Tyburn in the same way.”

“Yes, if you sport your philosophy as you did when we awoke this morning.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll be hanged if I’m not right. Suppose we argue the point?”

“Right or wrong, you will be hanged, Jack; so instead of arguing the point, suppose I tell you what the Don made such a long story about.”

“With all my heart; let us go to the pavilion.”

Our hero and his friend took their seats, and Gascoigne then communicated the history of Don Rebiera, to which we shall dedicate the ensuing chapter.

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