Chapter FIFTY NINE: The Tintoreras (1)

With all sail set, the barque glides silently on to her doom.

Gomez now "cons" Slush the steering, he alone having any knowledge of the coast. They are but a half-league from land, shaving close along the outer edge of the breakers. The breeze blowing off-shore makes it easy to keep clear of them.

There is high land on the starboard bow, gradually drawing to the beam. Gomez remembers it; for in the clear moonlight is disclosed the outline of a hill, which, once seen, could not easily be forgotten; a _cerro_ with two summits, and a _col_ or saddle-like depression between.

Still, though a conspicuous landmark, it does not indicate any anchorage; only that they are entering a great gulf which indents the Veraguan coast.

As the barque glides on, he observes a reach of clear water opening inland; to all appearance a bay, its mouth miles in width.

He would run her into it, but is forbidden by the breakers, whose froth-crested belt extends across the entrance from cape to cape.

Running past, he again closes in upon the land, and soon has the two-headed hill abeam, its singular silhouette conspicuous against the moonlit sky. All the more from the moon being directly beyond it, and low down, showing between the twin summits like a great globe-shaped lamp there suspended.

When nearly opposite, Gomez notes an open space in the line of breakers, easily told by its dark tranquil surface, which contrasts with the white horse-tails lashing up on each side of it.

Soon as sighting it, the improvised pilot leaves the helm, after giving Slush some final instructions about the steering. Then forsaking the poop, he proceeds towards the ship's waist, where he finds all the others ready for action. Striker and La Crosse with pieces of rope for making fast the ill-fated men; Padilla and his party armed with axes and crowbars--the keys with which they intend to open the locker-doors.

Near the mainmast stands the first mate, a lighted lantern in his hand; Davis beside him, with auger, mallet, and chisel. They are by the hatchway, which they have opened, intending descent into the hold. With the lantern concealed under the skirt of his ample dreadnought, Harry Blew stands within the shadow of the mast, as if reflecting on his faithlessness--ashamed to let his face be seen. He even appears reluctant to proceed in the black business, while affecting the opposite.

As the others are now occupied in various ways, with their eyes turned from him, he steps out to the ship's side, and looks over the rail. The moon is now full upon his face, which, under her soft innocent beams, shows an expression difficult as ever to interpret. The most skilled physiognomist could not read it. More than one emotion seem struggling within his breast, mingling together, or succeeding each other, quick as the changing hues of the chameleon. Now, as if cupidity, now remorse, anon the dark shadow of despair!

This last growing darker, he draws nearer to the side, and looks earnestly over, as if about to plunge into the briny deep, and so rid himself of a life, ever after to be a burden!

While standing thus, apparently hesitating as to whether he shall drown himself and have done with it, soft voices fall upon his ear, their tones blending with the breeze, as it sweeps in melancholy cadence through the rigging of the ship. Simultaneously there is a rustling of dresses, and he sees two female forms robed in white, with short cloaks thrown loosely over their shoulders, and kerchiefs covering their heads.

Stepping out on the quarterdeck, they stand for a short while, the moon shining on their faces, both bright and innocent as her beams. Then they stroll aft, little dreaming of the doom that awaits them.

That sight should soften his traitorous heart. Instead, it seems but to steel it the more--as if their presence recalled and quickened within him some vow of revenge. He hesitates no longer; but gliding back to the hatch, climbs over its coaming, and, lantern in hand, drops down into the hold--there to do a deed which neither light of moon nor sun should shine upon.

Though within the tropic zone, and but a few degrees from the equinoctial line, there is chillness in the air of the night, now nearing its mid-hours.

Drawing their cloaks closer around them, the young ladies mount up to the poop-deck, and stand resting their hands on the taffrail.

For a time they are silent; their eyes directed over the stern, watching the foam in the ship's wake, lit up with luminous phosphorescence.

They observe other scintillation besides that caused by the _Condor's_ keel. There are broad splatches of it all over the surface of the sea, with here and there elongated _sillons_, seemingly made by some creatures in motion, swimming parallel to the ship's course, and keeping pace with her.

They have not voyaged through thirty degrees of the Pacific Ocean to be now ignorant of what these are. They know them to be sharks, as also that some of larger size and brighter luminosity are the tracks of the _tintorera_--that species so much-dreaded by the pearl-divers of Panama Bay and the Californian Gulf.

This night both _tiburones_ and _tintoreras_ are more numerous than they have ever observed them--closer also to the vessel's side; for the sharks, observantly have seen a boat lowered down, which gives anticipation of prey within nearer reach of their ravenous jaws.

"_Santissima_!" exclaims Carmen, as one makes a dash at some waif drifting astern. "What a fearful thing it would be to fall overboard there--in the midst of those horrid creatures! One wouldn't have the slightest chance of being saved. Only to think how little space there is between us and certain death! See that monster just below, with its great, glaring eyes! It looks as if it wanted to leap up, and lay hold of us. Ugh! I mustn't keep my eyes on it any longer. It makes me tremble in a strange way. I do believe, if I continued gazing at it, I should grow giddy, and drop into its jaws."

She draws back a pace or two, and for some moments remains silent-- pensive. Perhaps she is thinking of a sailor saved from sharks after falling among them, and more still of the man who saved him. Whether or no, she soon again speaks, saying:

"_Sobrina_! are you not glad we're so near the end of our voyage?"

"I'm not sorry, _tia_--I fancy no one ever is. I should be more pleased, however, if it _were_ the end of our voyage, which unfortunately it isn't. Before we see Spain, we've another equally as long."

"True--as long in duration, and distance. But otherwise, it may be very different, and I hope more endurable. Across the Atlantic we'll have passage in a big steamship, with a grand dining saloon, and state sleeping-rooms, each in itself as large as the main-cabin of the _Condor_. Besides, we'll have plenty of company--passengers like ourselves. Let us hope they may turn out nice people. If so, our Atlantic voyage will be more enjoyable than this on the Pacific."

"But we've been very comfortable in the _Condor_; and _I'm_ sure Captain Lantanas has done all he could to make things agreeable for us."

"He has indeed, the dear good creature; and I shall ever feel grateful to him. Still you must admit that, however well meant, we've been at times a little bored by his learned dissertations. O Inez, it's been awfully lonely, and frightfully monotonous--at least, to me."

"Ah! I understand. What you want is a bevy of bachelors as fellow-passengers, young ones at that. Well; I suppose there will be some in the big steamer. Like enough, a half-score of our moustached _militarios_, returning from Cuba and other colonies. Wouldn't that make our Atlantic voyage enjoyable?"

"Not mine--nothing of the sort, as you ought to know. To speak truth, it was neither the loneliness nor monotony of our Pacific voyage that has made it so miserable. Something else."

"I think I can guess the something else."

"If so, you'll be clever. It's more than I can."

"Might it have anything to do with that informal leave-taking? Come, Carmen--you promised me you'd think no more about it till we see them in Cadiz, and have it all cleared up."

"You're wrong again, Inez. It is not anything of that."

"What then? It can't be the _mare amiento_? Of it I might complain. I'm even suffering from it now--although the water is so smooth. But you! why, you stand the sea as well as one of those rough sailors themselves! You're just the woman to be a naval officer's wife; and when your _novio_ gets command of a ship, I suppose you'll be for circumnavigating the world with him."

"You're merry, _mora_."

"Well, who wouldn't be, with the prospect of soon setting foot on land. For my part, I detest the sea; and when I marry my little _guardia-marina_, I'll make him forsake it, and take to some pleasanter profession. And if he prefer doing nothing, by good luck the rent of my lands will keep us both comfortably, with something to spare for a town house in Cadiz. But say, Carmen! What's troubling you? Surely you must know?"

"Surely I don't, Inez."

"That's strange--a mystery. Might it be regret at leaving behind your _preux chevaliers_ of California--that grand, gallant De Lara, whom, at our last interview, we saw sprawling in the road dust? You ought to feel relieved at getting rid of him, as I of my importunate suitor, the Senor Calderon. By the way, I wonder whatever became of them! Only to think of their never coming near us to say good-bye! And that nothing was seen or heard of them afterwards! Something must have happened. What could it have been! I've tried to think, but without succeeding."

"So I the same. It is indeed very strange; though I fancy father heard something about them, which he does not wish to make known to us. You remember what happened after we'd left the house--those men coming to it in the night. Father has an idea they intended taking his gold, believing it still there. What's more, I think he half suspects that of the four men--for there appears to have been four of them--two were no other than our old suitors, Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon."

She had almost said _sweethearts_, but the word has a suggestion of pain.

"_Maria de Merced_!" exclaims Inez. "It's frightful to think of such a thing. We ought to be thankful to that good saint for saving us from such villains, and glad to get away from a country where their like are allowed to live."

"_Sobrina_, you've touched the point. The very thought that's been distressing me is the remembrance of those men. Even since leaving San Francisco, as before we left, I've had a strange heaviness on my heart-- a sort of boding fear--that we haven't yet seen the last of them. It haunts me like a spectre. I can't tell why, unless it be from what I know of De Lara. He's not the man to submit to that ignominious defeat of which we were witnesses. Be assured he will seek to avenge it. We expected a duel, and feared it. Likely there would have been one, but for the sailing of the English ship. Still that won't hinder such a desperate man as De Lara from going after Edward, and trying to kill him any way he can. I have a fear he'll follow him--is after him now."

"What if he be? Your _fiance_ can take care of himself. And so can mine, if Calderon should get into his silly head to go after _him_. Let them go, so long as they don't come after us; which they're not likely-- all the way to Spain."

"I'm not so sure of that. Such as they may make their way anywhere. Professional gamblers--as we know them to be--travel to all parts of the world. All cities give them the same opportunity to pursue their calling--why not Cadiz? But, Inez, there's something I haven't told you, thinking you might make mock of it. I've had a fright more than once--several times, since we came aboard."

"A fright! what sort of a fright?"

"If you promise not to laugh at me, I'll tell you."

"I promise. I won't."

"'Twould be no laughing matter were it true. But, of course, it could only be fancy."

"Fancy about what? Go on, _tia_: I'm all impatience."

"About the sailors on board. All have bad faces; some of them seem very _demonios_. But there's one has particularly impressed me. Would you believe it, Inez, he has eyes exactly like De Lara's! His features too resemble those of Don Francisco; only that the sailor has a beard and whiskers, while he had none. Of course the resemblance can be but accidental. Still, it caused me a start, when I first observed it, and has several times since. Never more than this very morning, when I was up here, and saw that man. He was at the wheel, all by himself, steering. Several times, on turning suddenly round, I caught him looking straight at me, staring in the most insolent manner. I had half a mind to complain to Captain Lantanas; but reflecting that we were so near the end of our voyage--"

She is not permitted to say more. For at the moment, a man appearing on the poop-deck, as if he had risen out of it, stands before her--the sailor who resembles De Lara!

Making a low bow, he says:

"Not _near_ the end of your voyage, _senorita_; but _at_ it," adding with an ironical smile: "Now, ladies! you're going ashore. The boat is down; and, combining business with pleasure, it's my duty to hand you into it."

While he is speaking, another of the sailors approaches Inez; Hernandez, who offers his services in a similar style and strain.

For a moment, the girls are speechless, through sheer stark astonishment. Horror succeeds, as the truth flashes upon them. And then, instead of coherent speech, they make answer by a simultaneous shriek; at the same time making an attempt to retreat towards the cabin-stair.

Not a step is permitted them. They are seized in strong arms; and half-dragged, half-lifted off their feet, hurried away from the taffrail.

Their cries are stifled by huge woollen caps drawn over their heads, and down to their chins, almost choking them. But though no longer seeing, and only indistinctly hearing, they can tell where they are being taken. They feel themselves lifted over the vessel's side, and lowered down man-ropes into a boat; along the bottom of which they are finally laid, and held fast--as if they had fallen into the jaws of those terrible _tintoreras_, they so lately looked at keeping company with the ship!

CHAPTER SIXTY.

THE SCUTTLERS.

Harry Blew is in the hold, Bill Davis beside him.

They are standing on the bottom-timbers on a spot they have selected for their wicked work, and which they have had some difficulty in finding. They have reached it, by clambering over sandal-wood logs, cases of Manilla cigars, and piles of tortoise-shell. Clearing some of these articles out of the way, they get sight of the vessel's ribs, and at a point they know to be under the water-line. They know also that a hole bored between their feet, though ever so small, will in due time fill the barque's hold with water, and send her to the bottom of the sea.

Davis, auger in hand, stands in readiness to bore the hole; waiting for the first officer to give the word.

But something stays the latter from giving it, as the former from commencing the work.

It is a thought that seems to occur simultaneously to both, bringing their eyes up to one another's faces, in a fiance mutually interrogative. Blew is the first to put it in speech.

"Dang me, if I like to do it!"

"Ye've spoke my mind exact, Mr Blew!" rejoins Davis. "No more do I."

"'Tan't nothing short of murder," pursues the chief mate. "An' that's just why I an't up to it; the more, as there an't any downright needcessity. As I sayed to them above, I can see no good reason for sinking the ship. She'd sail right out, an' we'd never hear word o' her again. An' if them to be left 'board o' her shud get picked up, what matters that to us? We'll be out o' the way, long afore they could go anywhere to gi'e evidence against us. Neer a fear o' their ever findin' us--neyther you nor me, anyhow. I dare say, Davis, you mean to steer for some port, where we're not likely to meet any more Spaniards. I do, when I've stowed my share o' the plunder."

"Yes; I'm for Australia, soon's I can get there. That's the place for men like me."

"There you'll be safe enough. So I, where I intend goin'. And we'll both feel better, not havin' a ugly thing to reflect back on. Which we would, if we send these three poor creeturs to Davy's locker. Now, I propose to you what you heerd me say to the rest: let's gi'e them a chance for their lives."

"And not do this?"

As he puts the question, Davis points his auger to the bottom of the ship.

"There an't no need--not a morsel o' good can come from sinkin' her. And not a bit harm in lettin' her slip."

"What will the others say?"

"They won't know anything about it--they can't unless we tell 'em. And we won't be the fools to do that. As I argied to them, with the wind off-shore, as 'tis now, she'll scud out o' sight o' land long afore daylight. Bill Davis! whatsomever the others may do, or think they're doin', let's me an' you keep our consciences clear o' this foul deed. Believe me, mate, we'll both feel better for't some day."

"If you think they won't know, I'm agreed."

"How can they? There an't none o' them to see what we do down here. 'Taint likely there's any listener. Gie a knock or two wi' the mallet!"

The ship's carpenter obeying, strikes several blows against an empty water-cask, the noise ascending through the open hatch. He suspends his strokes at hearing exclamations above; then screams in the shrill treble of female voices.

"You see they're not thinking o' us," says the mate. "Them Spaniards are too busy about their own share o' the job. They're gettin' the girls into the boat."

"Yes; that's what they're doing."

"Sweet girls both be. An't they, Davis?"

"Ay, that they are; a pair of reg'lar beauties."

"Look here, shipmate! Since we've settled this other thing, I want to say a word about them too, and I may's well say it now. Gomez and that land-lubber, Hernandez, are layin' claim to them, as if they had a right. Now they haven't, no more than any o' the rest o' us. Some others may have fancies, too. I confess to havin' a weakness for the one wi' the copper-coloured hair, which is she as Gil Gomez wants to 'propriate. I made no objection to his takin' her into the boat. But soon's we get ashore, I intend to stan' out for my rights to that little bit o' property, which are just as good as his. Do you feel like backin' me?"

"Hang me, if I don't! I'm myself a bit sweet upon the dark 'un, and have been, ever since settin' eyes on her. And though I've said nothing, like yourself, I wasn't going to give that point up, before having a talk about it. You say the word--I'll stan' by you. And if it comes to fightin', I'll make short work with that bandy-legged chap Hernandez, the one as wants her. We can count on Jack Striker on our side; and most like the Dane and Dutchman; La Crosse for certain. Frenchy don't cotton to them Spaniards, ever since his quarrel with Padilla. But, as you say, let's go in for the girls, whether or not. You can claim the light-haired. I'm for the dark one, an' damned if I an't ready to fight for her--to the death!"

"As I for the other!" exclaims the ex-man-o'-war, in eager serious earnest.

"But what's to be done after we go ashore?" asks Davis. "That's what's been bothering me. We're about to land in a strange country, but where these Spanish chaps will be at home, speakin' the lingo, an'll so have the advantage of us. There's a difficulty. Can you see a way out of it?"

"Clearly."

"How?"

"Because the girls don't care for eyther o' the two as are layin' claim to them. Contrarywise, they hate 'em both. I've knowd that all along. So, if we get 'em out o' their clutches--at the same time givin' the girls a whisper about protectin' them--they'll go willin'ly 'long wi' us. Afterwards, we can act accordin' to the chances that turn up. Only swear you'll stan' by me, Bill, an' wi' Striker to back us, we'll bring things right."

"I'm bound to stan' by you; so'll Jack, I'm sure. Hark! that's him, now! He's calling to us. By God, I believe they're in the boat!"

"They are! Let's hurry up! Just possible them Spaniards may take it into their heads--. Quick, shipmate! Heave after me!"

With this, Blew holds out the lantern to light them up the hatch, both making as much haste to reach the deck as if their lives depended upon speed.

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

THE BARQUE ABANDONED.

While the scuttlers are shirking their work in the _Condor's_ hold, and simultaneous with the abduction on deck, a scene is transpiring in her cabin, which might be likened to a saturnalia of demons.

The skipper and Don Gregorio, sitting over their walnuts and wine, are startled by the sound of footsteps descending the stair. As they are heavy and hurried, bearing no resemblance to the gentle tread of woman-- it cannot be the ladies coming down again. Nor yet the negro cook, since his voice is heard above in angry expostulation. Two of the sailors have just seized him in his galley, throttled him back on the bench, and are there lashing him with a piece of log-line.

They at the cabin-table know nothing of this. They hear his shouts, and now also the shrieks of the young girls; but have no time to take any steps, as at that instant the cuddy-door is dashed open, and several men come rushing in; the second mate at their head. Lantanas, sitting with his face to the door, sees them first, Don Gregorio, turning in his seat, the instant after.

Neither thinks of demanding a reason for the rude intrusion. The determined air of the intruders, with the fierce expression on their faces, tells it would be idle.

In a time shorter than it takes to tell it, the two doomed men are made fast to the stanchioned chairs; where they sit bolt upright, firm as bollard heads. But not in silence. Both utter threats, oaths, angry fulminations.

Not for long are they allowed this freedom of speech. One of the sailors, seizing a pair of nutcrackers, thrusts them between the skipper's teeth, gagging him. Another with a corkscrew, does the like for Don Gregorio.

Then the work of pillage proceeds. The locker lids are forced, and the boxes of gold-dust dragged out.

Several goings and comings are required for its transport to the pinnace; but at length it is stowed in the boat, the plunderers taking their seats beside it.

One lingers in the cabin behind the rest; that fiend in human shape who has all along counselled killing the unfortunate men.

Left alone with them, helpless, and at his mercy, he looks as if still determined to do this. It is not from any motive of compassion that he goes from one to the other, and strikes the gags from between their teeth. For at the same time he apostrophises them in horrid mockery:

"_Carramba_! I can't think of leaving two gentlemen seated at such a well-furnished table, and no end of wine, without being able to hob-nob, and drink one another's health!"

Then specially addressing himself to Lantanas, he continues:

"You see, captain, I'm not spiteful; else I shouldn't think of showing you this bit of civility, after the insults you've offered me, since I've been second officer of your ship."

After which, turning angrily upon Don Gregorio, and going close up, he shrieks into his ears:

"Perhaps you don't know me, Montijo? Can your worship recall a circumstance that occurred some six years ago, when you where _alcalde-mayor_ of Yerba Buena? You may remember having a poor fellow pilloried, and whipped, for doing a bit of contraband. I was that unfortunate individual. And this is my satisfaction for the indignity you put upon me. Keep your seats, gentlemen! Drink your wine and eat your walnuts. Before you've cleared the table, this fine barque, with your noble selves, will be at the bottom of the sea."

The ruffian concludes with a peal of scornful laughter, continued as he ascends the cabin-stair, after striding out and banging the door behind him!

On deck, he sees himself alone; and hurrying to the ship's waist, scrambles over the side, down into the boat; where he finds everything stowed, the oarsmen seated on the thwarts, their oars in the rowlocks, ready to shove off.

They are not all there yet. Two--the first mate and Davis are still aboard the barque--down in her hold.

There are those who would gladly cast loose, and leave the laggards behind. Indeed, soon as stepping into the boat, Padilla proposes it, the other Spaniards abetting him.

But their traitorous desire is opposed by Striker. However otherwise debased, the ex-convict is true to the men who speak his own tongue.

He protests in strong determined language, and is backed by the Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and Slush.

"Bah!" exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the minority; "I was only jesting. Of course, I had no intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha!" he adds with a forced laugh, "we'd be the blackest of traitors to behave that way."

Striker pays no heed to the hypocritical speech, but calls to his old chum and Harry Blew--alternately pronouncing their names.

He gets response, and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the rail.

Blew is not far behind, but still does not appear. He is by the foot of the mainmast with a haulyard in his hands as though hoisting something aloft. The moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any one to see what it is. Besides, there is no one observing him--no one could, the bulwarks being between.

"Hillo, there, Blew!" again hails Striker; "what be a-keepin' ye? Hurry down! These Spanish chaps are threetnin' to go off without ye."

"Hang it!" exclaims the chief mate, now showing the side; "I hope that an't true!"

"Certainly not!" exclaims Padilla; "nothing of the kind. We were only afraid you might delay too long, and be in danger of going down with the vessel."

"Not much fear of that," returns Blew, dropping into the boat, "It'll be some time afore she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out, didn't ye?"

"Ay, ay!" responds he who was the last at the wheel.

"All right; shove off, then! That wind'll take the old _Condor_ straight seawart; and long afore sunrise she'll be out sight o' land. Give way there--way!"

The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from the side, with prow turned shoreward.

The barque, with her sails still spread, is left to herself, and the breeze, which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilderness of ocean.

Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle of an oar in its rowlock, the pirates run their boat through the breakers, and approach the shore. Right ahead are the two summits, with the moon just going down behind; and between is a cove of horseshoe shape, the cliffs extending around it.

With a few more strokes the boat is brought into it and glides on to its innermost end.

As the keel grates upon the shingly strand, their ears are saluted by a chorus of cries--the alarm signal of seabirds, startled by the intrusion; among them the scream of the harpy eagle, resembling the laugh of a maniac.

These sounds, despite their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing them. They tell of a shore uninhabited--literally, that the "coast is clear"--just as they wish it.

Beaching the boat, they bound on shore, and lift their captives out; then the spoils--one unresisting as the other.

Some go in search of a place where they may pass the night; for it is too late to think of proceeding inland.

Between the strand and the cliff's base, these discover a beach, several feet above sea-level, having an area of over an acre, covered with coarse grass, just the spot for a camping-place.

As the sky has become clouded, and threatens a downpour of rain, they carry thither the boat's sail, intending to rig it up as an awning.

But a discovery is made which spares them the trouble. Along its base the cliff is honeycombed with caves, one of ample dimensions, sufficient to shelter the whole crew. A ship's lamp, which they have brought with them, when lighted throws its glare upon stalactites, that sparkle like the pendants of chandeliers.

Disposing themselves in various attitudes, some reclined on their spread pilot-coats, some seated on stones or canvas bags, they enter upon a debauch with the wines abstracted from the stores of the abandoned barque--drinking, talking, singing, shouting, and swearing, till the cavern rings with their hellish revelry. It is well their captives are not compelled to take part in, or listen to, it. To them has been appropriated one of the smaller grottoes, the boat-sail fixed in front securing them privacy. Harry Blew has done this. In the breast of the British man-o'-war's man there is still a spark of delicacy. Though his gratitude has given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to the level of that ruffianism around him.

While the carousal is thus carried on within the cave, without, the overcast sky begins to discharge itself. Lightning forks and flashes athwart the firmament; thunder rolls reverberating along the cliffs; a strong wind sweeps them; the rain pouring down in torrents.

It is a tropic storm--short-lived, lasting scarce half-an-hour.

But, while on, it lashes the sea into fury, driving the breakers upon the beach, where the beat has been left loosely moored.

In the reflux of the ebbing tide, this is set afloat and carried away seaward. Driven then upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to pieces, when the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away over the foam-crested billows.

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

TWO TARQUINS.

It is after midnight. A calm has succeeded the storm; and silence reigns around the cove where the pirates have put in. The seabirds have returned to their perches on the cliff, and now sit noiselessly--save an occasional angry scream from the osprey, as a whip-poor-will, or some other plumed plunderer of the night, flits past his place of repose, near enough to wake the tyrant of the sea-shore, and excite his jealous rage.

Other sounds are the dull boom of the outside breakers, and the lighter ripple of the tidal wave washing over a strand rich in shells.

Now and then, a _manatee_, raising its bristled snout above the surf, gives out a low prolonged wail, like the moan of some creature in mortal agony.

But there is no human voice now. The ruffians have ended their carousal. Their profane songs, ribald jests, and drunken cachinations, inharmoniously mingling with the soft monotone of the sea, have ceased to be heard. They lie astretch along the cavern floor, its hollow aisles echoing back their snores and stertorous breathing.

Still they are not all asleep, nor all within the cavern. Two are outside, sauntering along the shadow of the cliff. As the moon has also gone down, it is too dark to distinguish their faces. Still, there is light enough reflected from the luminous surface of the sea to show that neither is in sailor garb, but the habiliments of landsmen--this the national costume of Spanish California. On their heads are _sombreros_ of ample brim; wide trousers--_cahoneras_--flap loose around their ankles; while over their shoulders they carry cloaks, which, by the peculiar drape, are recognisable as Mexican _mangas_. In the obscurity the colour of these cannot be determined, though one is scarlet, the other sky-blue.

Apparelled as the two men are now, it would be difficult to identify them as Gil Gomez and Jose Hernandez. For all it is they.

They are strolling about without fear, or thought of any one observing them. Yet one is; a man, who has come out of the larger cavern just after them, and who follows them along the cliff's base. Not openly or boldly, as designing to join in their deliberation; but crouchingly and by stealth, as if playing spy on them.

He is in sailor togs, wearing a loose dreadnought coat, which he buttons on coming out of the cavern. But before closing it over his breast, the butt of a pistol, and the handle of a knife, could be seen gleaming there, both stuck behind a leathern waist belt.

On first stepping forth, he stands for a time with eyes fixed upon the other two. He can see them but indistinctly, while they cannot see him at all, his figure making no silhouette against the dark disc of the cave's mouth. And afterwards, as he moves along the cliff, keeping close in, its shadow effectually conceals him from their view. But still safer is he from being observed by them, after having ensconced himself in a cleft of rock; which he does while their backs are turned upon him.

In the obscure niche he now occupies no light falls upon his face--not a ray. If there did, it would disclose the countenance of Harry Blew; and as oft before, with an expression upon it not easily understood. But no one sees, much less makes attempt to interpret it.

Meanwhile the two saunterers come to a stop and stand conversing. It is Gomez who is first heard saying:

"I've been thinking, _companero_, now we've got everything straight so far, that our best plan will be to stay where we are till the other matter's fixed."

"What other are you speaking of?"

"The marrying, of course."

"Oh! that. Well?"

"We can send on for the _padre_, and bring him here; or failing him, the _cura_. To tell truth, I haven't the slightest idea of where we've come ashore. We may be a goodish distance from Santiago; and to go there, embargoed as we are, there's a possibility of our being robbed of our pretty baggage on the route. You understand me?"

"I do!"

"Against risk of that kind, it is necessary we should take precautions. And the first--as also the best I can think of--is to stay here till we're spliced. One of our two Californian friends can act as a messenger. Either, with six words I shall entrust to him, will be certain to bring back an ecclesiastic, having full powers to perform the flea-bite of a ceremony. Then we can march inland without fear--ay, with flying colours; both Benedicts, our blushing brides on our arms, and in Santiago spend a pleasant honeymoon."

"Delightful anticipation!"

"Just so. And for that very reason, we mustn't risk marring it; which we might, by travelling as simple bachelors. So I say, let us get married before going a step farther."

"But the others? Are they to assist at our nuptials?"

"Certainly not."

"In what way can it be avoided?"

"The simplest in the world. It's understood that we divide our plunder the first thing in the morning. When that's done, and each has packed up his share, I intend proposing that we separate--every one to go his own gait."

"Will they agree to that, think you?"

"Of course they will. Why shouldn't they? It's the safest way for all, and they'll see that. Twelve of us trooping together through the country--to say nothing of having the women along--the story we're to tell about shipwreck might get discredited. When that's made clear, to our old shipmates, they'll be considerate for their own safety. Trust me for making it clear. Of course we'll keep our Californian friends to act as groomsmen; so that the only things wanted will be a brace of bridesmaids."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughs Hernandez.

"And now to see about our brides. We've not yet proposed to them. We went once to do that, and were disappointed. Not much danger of that now."

"For all that, we may count upon a flat refusal."

"Flat or sharp, little care I. And it won't signify, one way or the other. In three days or less I intend calling Carmen Montijo my wife. But come on; I long to lay my hand and heart at her feet."

Saying which Gomez strides on towards the grotto, the other by his side, like two Tarquins about to invade the sleep of virginal innocence.

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

WITHIN THE GROTTO.

Though the grotto is in darkness, its occupants are not asleep. To them repose is impossible; for they are that moment in the midst of anguish, keen as human heart could feel. They have passed through its first throes, and are for the while a little calmer. But it is the tranquillity of deep, deadening grief, almost despair. They mourn him dearest to them as dead.

Nor have they any doubt of it. How could they? While in the boat, they heard their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well knowing what they meant. Long since has she gone to the bottom of the sea, with the living left aboard, or perhaps only their lifeless bodies; for they may have been murdered before! No matter now in what way death came to them. Enough of sadness and horror to think it has come--enough for the bereaved ones to know they are bereft.

Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. Though hindered from seeing while in the boat, they have heard. Cupidity the cause; the crime a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas! it has succeeded.

But all is not yet over. Would that it were! There is something still to come; something they fear to reflect upon, or speak of to one another. What is to be their own fate?

Neither can tell, or guess. Their thoughts are too distracted for reasoning. But in the midst of vague visions, one assumes a shape too well-defined. It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when seized.

She again returns to it, saying:

"Inez, I'm now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. From what has happened, and some voices we heard, I fear my suspicions have been too true!"

"Heaven help us, if it be so!"

"Yes; Heaven help us! Even from pirates we might have expected some mercy; but none from them. _Ay de mi_! what will become of us?"

The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The spirit of the Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, is now crushed under a weight of very wretchedness. Soon again they exchange speech, seeking counsel of one another. Is there no hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may turn in this hour of dread ordeal? No--not one! Even the English sailor, in whom they had trusted, has proved untrue; to all appearance, chief of the conspiring crew! Every human being seems to have abandoned them. Has God?

"Let us pray to Him!" says Carmen.

"Yes," answers Inez; "He only can help us now."

They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of the cave, and send up their voices in earnest prayer. They first entreat the Holy Virgin that the life of him dear to them may yet be spared; then invoke her protection for themselves, against a danger both dread as death itself. They pray in trembling accents, but with a fervour eloquent through fear.

Solemnly pronouncing "Amen!" they make the sign of the cross; in darkness, God alone seeing it.

As their hands drop down from the gesture, and while they are still in a kneeling attitude, a noise outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven, suddenly recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears.

They hear voices of men in conversation; at the same time the sailcloth is pushed aside, and two men press past it into the cave. Soon as entering one says:

"Senoritas! we must ask pardon for making our somewhat untimely call; which present circumstances render imperative. It's to be hoped, however, you won't stand upon such stiff ceremony with us, as when we had the honour of last paying our respects to you."

After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to see what may be the effect of his words. As this cannot be gathered from any reply-- since none is vouchsafed--he continues; "Dona Carmen Montijo, you and I are old acquaintances; though, it may be, you do not remember my voice. With the sound of the sea so long echoing in your ears, that's not strange. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove more effectual in recalling an old friend. Let me give you something to assist it!"

Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto concealed beneath his cloak. As it lights up the grotto, four figures are seen erect; for the girls have sprung to their feel in apprehension of immediate danger. Upon all, the light shines clear; and, fronting her, Carmen Montijo sees--too surely recognising it--the face of Francisco de Lara; while in her _vis-a-vis_, Inez Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon!

Yes, before them are their scorned suitors; no longer disguised in sailor garb, but resplendent in their Californian costume--the same worn by them on that day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the dust of the Dolores road.

Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is complete; and in strains of exultation he continues:

"So, ladies! you see we've come together again! No doubt you're a little surprised at our presence, but I hope not annoyed."

There is no reply to this taunting speech.

"Well, if you won't answer, I shall take it for granted you _are_ annoyed; besides looking a little alarmed too. You've no need to be that."

"No, indeed," endorses Calderon. "We mean you no harm--none whatever."

"On the contrary," goes on De Lara, "only good. We've nothing but favours to offer you."

"Don Francisco de Lara!" exclaims Carmen, at length breaking silence, and speaking in a tone of piteous expostulation; "and you, Don Faustino Calderon, why have you committed this crime? What injury have we ever done you?"

"Come! not so fast, fair Carmen! Crime's a harsh word, and we've not committed any as yet--nothing to speak of."

"No crime! _Santissima_! My father--my poor father!"

"Don't be uneasy about him. He's safe enough."

"Safe! Dead! Drowned! _Dios de mi alma_!"

"No, no. That's all nonsense," protests the fiend, adding falsehood to his sin of deeper dye. "Don Gregorio is not where you say. Instead of being at the sea's bottom, he is sailing upon its surface; and is likely to be, for Heaven knows how long. But let's drop that subject of the past, which seems unpleasant to you, and talk of the present--of ourselves. You ask what injury you've ever done us? Faustino Calderon may answer for himself to the fair Inez. To you, Dona Carmen, I shall make reply--But we may as well confer privately."

At this he lays hold of her wrist, and leads her aside; Calderon conducting Inez in the opposite direction.

When the whole length of the cavern is between the two pairs, De Lara resumes speech:

"Yes, Dona Carmen; you _have_ done me an injury--a double wrong I may call it."

"How, sir?" she asks, withdrawing her hand from his, with a disdainful gesture. "How?" he retorts. "Why, in making me love you--by leading me to believe my love returned."

"You speak falsely; I never did so."

"You did, Dona Carmen; you did. It is you who speak false, denying it. That is the first wrong I have to reproach you with. The second is in casting me off, as soon as you supposed you'd done with me. Not so, as you see now. We're together again--never more to part till I've had satisfaction for all. I once hinted--I now tell you plainly, you've made a mistake in trifling with Francisco de Lara."

"I never trifled with you, senor. _Dios mio_! What means this? Man-- if you be a man--have mercy! Oh! what would you--what would you?"

"Nothing to call for such distracted behaviour on your part. On the contrary, I've brought you here--for I'll not deny that it's I who have done it--to grant you favours, instead of asking them. Ay, or even satisfying resentments. What I intend towards you, I hope you will appreciate. To shorten explanations--for which we've neither opportunity nor time--I want you for my wife--_want you, and will have you_."

"_Your_ wife!"

"Yes; my wife. You needn't look surprised, nor counterfeit feeling it. And equally idle for you to make opposition. I've determined upon it. So, you must many me."

"Marry the murderer of my father! Sooner than do that, you shall also be mine. Wretch! I am in your power. You can kill me now."

"I know all that, without your telling me. But I don't intend killing you. On the contrary, I shall take care to keep you alive, until I've tried what sort of a wife you'll make. Should you prove a good one, and fairly affectionate, we two may lead a happy life together, notwithstanding the little unpleasantness that's been between us. If not, and our wedded bondage prove uncongenial, why, then, I may release you in the way you wish, or any other that seems suitable. After the honeymoon, you shall have your choice. Now Dona Carmen! those are my conditions. I hope you find them fair enough!"

She makes no reply. The proud girl is dumb, partly with indignation, partly from the knowledge that all speech would be idle. But while angry to the utmost, she is also afraid--trembling at the alternative presented--death or dishonour; the last if she marry the murderer of her father; the first if she refuse him!

The ruffian repeats his proposal, in the same cynical strain, concluding it with a threat.

She is at length stung to reply; which she does in but two words, twice repeated in wild despairing accent. They are:

"Kill me--kill me!"

Almost at the same time, and in similar strain does Inez answer her cowardly suitor, who in a corner of the grotto has alike brought her to bay.

After the dual response, there is a short interval of silence. Then De Lara, speaking for both, says:

"Senoritas! we shall leave you now; and you can go to sleep without fear of further solicitation. No doubt, after a night's rest, you'll awake to a more sensible view of matters in general, and the case as it stands. Of one thing be assured; that there's no chance of your escaping from your present captivity, unless by consenting to change your names. And if you don't consent, they'll be changed all the same. Yes, Carmen Montijo! before another week passes over your head, you shall be addressed as Dona Carmen de Lara.

"And you, Inez Alvarez, will be called Dona Inez Calderon. No need for you to feel dishonoured by a name among the first in California. Noble as your own; ay, or any in old Spain."

"_Hasta manana, muchacas_!" salutes De Lara, preparing to take leave. "_Pasan Vs buena noche_!"

Calderon repeating the same formulary, the two step towards the entrance, lift up the piece of suspended sailcloth, and pass out into night. They have taken the lantern along with them, again leaving the grotto in darkness.

The girls grope their way, till their arms come in contact. Then, closing in mutual embrace, they sink together upon the cold flinty floor!

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

OCEANWARDS.

Another day dawns over the great South Sea. As the golden orb shows above the crest of the central American Cordillera, its beams scatter wide over the Pacific, as a lamp raised aloft, flashing its light afar. Many degrees of longitude receive instant illumination, at once turning night into day.

An observer looking west over that vast watery expanse would see on its shining surface objects that gladdened not the eyes of Balboa. In his day, only the rude Indian _balsa, or_ frail _periagua_, afraid to venture out, stole timidly along the shore; but now huge ships, with broad white sails, and at rare intervals the long black hull of a steamer, thick smoke vomited forth from her funnel, may be descried in a offing that extends to the horizon itself.

But not always may ships be seen upon it; for the commerce of the Pacific is slight compared with that of the Atlantic, and large vessels passing along the coast of Veragua are few and far between.

On this morning, however, one is observed, and but one; she not sailing coastwise, but standing out towards mid-ocean, as though she had just left the land.

As the ascending sun dispels the night darkness around her, she can be descried as a white fleck on the blue water, her spread sails seeming no bigger than the wings of a sea-gull. Still, through a telescope-- supposing it in the hands of a seaman--she may be told to be a craft with polacca-masts; moreover, that the sails on her mizzen are not square-set, but fore-and-aft, proclaiming her a barque. For she is one; and could the observer through his glass make out the lettering upon her stern, he would read there her name, _El Condor_.

Were he transported aboard of her, unaware of what has happened, it would surprise him to find her decks deserted; not even a man at the wheel, though she is sailing with full canvas spread, even to studding-sails; no living thing seen anywhere, save two monstrous creatures covered with rust-coloured hair--mocking counterfeits of humanity.

Equally astonished would he be at finding her forecastle abandoned; sailors' chests with the lids thrown open, and togs lying loose around them! Nor would it lessen his astonishment to glance into the galley, and there behold a black man sitting upon its bench, who does not so much as rise to receive him. Nor yet, descending her cabin-stair, to see a table profusely spread, at either end guest, alike uncourteous in keeping their seats, on the laces of both an expression of agonised despair! And all _this_ might be seen on board the Chilian barque, on the morning after she was abandoned by her traitorous and piratical crew, A sad night has it been for the three unfortunates left aboard, more especially the two constrained to sit at the cabin-table. Both have bitterest thoughts, enough to fill the cup of their misery to the brim. A night of anguish for the ex-haciendado. Not because of having seen his treasure, the bulk of his fortune, borne off before his eyes; but from the double shriek which, at that same instant, reached him from the deck, announcing the seizure of things more dear. His daughter and grand-daughter were then made captive; and, from their cries suddenly leasing, he dreaded something worse--fearing them stifled by death. Reminded of an event in Yerba Buena, as also recognising the ruffian who taunted him, made it the more probable that such had been their fate. He almost wished it; he would rather that, than a doom too horrible to think of.

The first mate? He must have been killed too; butchered while endeavouring to defend them? The unsuspicious captain could not think of his chief officer having gone against him; and how could Don Gregorio believe the man so recommended turning traitor?

While they were thus charitably judging him, they received a crushing response; hearing his voice among the mutineers--not in expostulation, or opposed, but as if taking part with them! One, Striker, called out his name, to which he answered; and, soon after, other speeches from his lips sounded clear through the cabin windows, open on that mild moonlight night.

Still listening, as they gazed in one another's face with mute astonishment, they heard a dull thud against the ship's side--the stroke of a boat-hook as the pinnace was shoved off--then a rattle, as the oars commence working in the tholes, succeeded by the plash of the oar-blades in the water. After that, the regular "dip-dip," at length dying away, as the boat receded, leaving the abandoned vessel silent as a graveyard in the mid-hour of night.

Seated with face towards the cuddy windows, Don Gregorio could see through them, and as the barque's bow rose on the swell, depressing her stern, he commanded a view of the sea outside.