Cadwallader's words seem strangely to affect his companion, changing the expression upon his countenance. It is still shadowed, but the cloud is of a different kind. From anger it has altered to anxiety!

"You've struck a chord, Will, that, while not soothing the old pain, gives me a new one. I wasn't thinking of that; my thoughts were all occupied with the other trouble—you understand?"

"I do. At the same, I think you make too much of the other trouble, as you call it. I confess it troubles me too a little; though, perhaps, not as it does you. And luckily less, the more I reflect on it. After all, there don't seem so much to be bothered about. As you know, Ned, it's a common thing among Spanish-Americans, whose customs are altogether unlike our own—to have gamblers going into their best society. Besides, I can tell you something that may comfort you a little—a bit of information I had from Inez, as we were platicando along the road on our ride. It was natural she should speak about the sky-blue fellow and my sticking his horse in the hip."

"What did she say?" asks Crozier, with newly awakened interest.

"That he was a gentleman by birth; but falling fast, and indeed quite down."

"And De Lara; did she say aught of him?"

"She did; she spoke of him still more disparagingly, though knowing him less. She said he had been introduced to them by the other, and they were accustomed to meet him on occasions. But of late they had learned more of him; and learning this, her aunt—your Carmen—had become very desirous of cutting his acquaintance, as indeed all of them. And that they intended doing so—even if they had remained in California. But now—so soon leaving it, they did not like to humiliate De Lara by giving him the conge he deserves."

Crozier, with eyes earnestly fixed upon Cadwallader, has listened to the explanation. At its close he cries out, grasping his comrade's hand:

"Will! you've lifted a load from my heart. I now see daylight where all seemed darkness; and beholding yonder hill feel the truth of Campbell's splendid lines:—

"A kiss can consecrate the ground, Where mated hearts are mutual bound; The spot, where love's first links are wound, That ne'er are riven, Is hallowed down to Earth's profound, And up to Heaven!"

After repeating the passionate words, he stands gazing on a spot so consecrated to him—the summit of the hill—where, just twenty-four hours ago, he spoke love's last appeal to Carmen Montijo. For the Crusader has passed out through the Golden Gate, and is now beating down the coast of the Pacific.

Cadwallader's eyes, with equal interest, are turned upon the same spot, and for a time both are silent, absorbed in sweet reflections; recalling all that had occurred in a scene whose slightest incident neither can ever forgot.

Only when the land looms low, and the outlines of the San Bruno Mountains begin to blend with the purpling sky, does a shadow again show itself on the countenances of the young officers. But now it is different, no longer expressing chagrin, nor the rancour of jealousy; but doubt, apprehension, fear, for the loved ones left behind. Still the cloud has a silver lining, and that is—Harry Blew.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

A SOLEMN COMPACT.

A Cottage of the old Californian kind—in other words, a rancho; one of the humblest of these humble dwellings—the homes of the Spanish-American poor. It is a mere hut, thatched with a species of sea-shore grass, the "broombent" seen growing in the sand-dunes near by. For it is by the sea, or within sight of it; inconspicuously placed by reason of rugged rocks, that cluster around, and soar up behind, forming a background in keeping with the rude architectural style of the dwelling. From the land side it is only approachable by devious and difficult paths, known but to a few familiar friends of its owner.

From the shore, equally difficult, for the little cove leading up to it would not have depth sufficient to permit the passage of a boat, but for a tiny stream trickling seaward, which has furrowed out a channel in the sand. That by this boats can enter the cove is evident from one being seen moored near its inner end, in front of, and not far from, the hovel. As it is a craft of the kind generally used by Californian fishermen—more especially those who chase the fur-seal—it may be deduced that the owner of the hut is a seal-hunter.

This is his profession reputedly; though there are some who ascribe to him callings of a different kind; among others, insinuating that he occasionally does business as a contrabandista.

Whether true or not, Rafael Rocas—for he is the owner of the hut—is not the man to trouble himself about denying it. He would scarce consider smuggling an aspersion on his character; and indeed, under old Mexican administration, it would have been but slight blame, or shame, to him. And not such a great deal either under the new, at the time of which we write, but perhaps still less. Compared with other crimes then rife in California, contrabandism might almost be reckoned an honest calling.

But Rafael Rocas has a repute for doings of a yet darker kind. With those slightly acquainted with him it is only suspicion; but a few of his more intimate associates can say for certain that he is not disinclined to a stroke of road robbery or a job at housebreaking; so that, if times have changed for the worse, he has not needed any change to keep pace with them.

It is the day on which the British frigate sailed from San Francisco Bay, and he is in his hut; not alone, but in the company of three men, in personal appearance altogether unlike himself. While he wears the common garb of a Californian fisherman—loose pea-coat of coarse canvas, rough water-boots, and seal-skin cap—they are attired in costly stuffs—cloaks of finest broadcloth, jaquetas of rich velvet, and cahoneras, lashed with gold lace, and gleaming with constellations of buttons.

Notwithstanding their showy magnificence, the seal-hunter, smuggler, or whatever he may be, does not appear to treat his guests with any obsequious deference. On the contrary, he is engaged with them in familiar converse, and by his tone and gestures, showing that he feels himself their equal.

Two of the individuals thus oddly consorting are already well known to the reader—the third but slightly. The former are Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon; the latter is Don Manuel Diaz, famed for his fighting cocks. The first two have just entered under Rocas' roof, finding the cockfighter already there, as De Lara predicted.

After welcoming his newly arrived guests in Spanish-American fashion, placing his house at their disposal—"Mia casa a la disposition de Vms,"—the seal-hunter has set before them a bottle of his best liquor—this being aguardiente of Tequila. They have taken off their outer apparel—cloaks and hats—and are seated around a small deal table, the only one the shanty contains—its furniture being of the scantiest and most primitive kind.

Some conversation of a desultory nature has passed between them; but they have now entered on a subject more interesting and particular, the keynote having been struck by De Lara. He opens by asking a question:

"Caballeros! do you want to be rich?"

All three laugh, while simultaneously answering:

"Carramba! Yes."

Diaz adds:

"I've heard many an idle interrogatory; but never, in all my life, one so superfluous as yours; not even when there's twenty to one offered against a staggering cock."

Rocas inquires:

"What do ye call rich, Don Francisco?"

"Well," responds the Creole, "say sixty thousand dollars. I suppose you'd consider that sufficient to bestow the title?"

"Certainly," rejoins Rocas; "not only the title, but the substantial and real thing. If I'd only the half of it, I'd give up chasing seals."

"And I cock fighting," put in Diaz; "that is, so far as to look to it for a living; though I might still incline to have a main for pastime's sake. With sixty thousand dollars at my back, I'd go for being a grand ganadero, like friend Faustino here, whose horses and horned cattle yield him such a handsome income."

The other three laugh at this, since it is known to all of them that the ganadero has long since got rid both of his horses and horned cattle.

"Well, gentlemen," says De Lara, after this bit of preliminary skirmishing, "I can promise each of you the sum I speak of, if you're willing to go in with me in a little affair I've fixed upon. Are you the men for it?"

"Your second question is more sensible than the first, though equally uncalled for—at least so far as concerns me. I'm the man to go in for anything which promises to make me the owner of sixty thousand dollars."

It is Diaz who thus unconditionally declares himself Calderon endorses it by a declaration of like daring nature. The seal-hunter simply nods assent, but in a knowing manner. For he is already acquainted with De Lara's design; knows all about it; being, in fact, its real originator.

"Now, Don Francisco! let's know what you're driving at?" demands Diaz, adding: "Have you struck a veta, or discovered a rich placer? If so, we're ready for either rock-mining or pan-washing, so long as the labour's not too hard. Speak out, and tell us what it is. The thought of clutching such a pretty prize makes a man impatient."

"Well, I'll let you into the secret so far—it is a veta—a grand gold mine—a very bonanza—but one which will need neither rock-crushing nor mud-cradling. The gold has been already gathered; and lies in a certain place, all in a lump; only waiting transport to some other place, which we can select at our leisure."

"Your words sound well," remarks Don Manuel.

"Wonderful well," echoes Rocas, with assumed surprise.

"Are they not too good to be true?" asks Diaz.

"No. They're true as good. Not a bit of exaggeration, I assure you. The gold only wants to be got at, and then taken."

"Ah! there may be difficulty about that?" rejoins the doubting Diaz.

"Do you expect to finger sixty thousand pesos without taking the trouble to stretch out your hand?"

"Oh, no. I'm not so unreasonable. For that I'd be willing to stretch out both hands, with a knife in one, and a pistol in the other."

"Well, it's not likely to need either, if skilfully managed. I ask you again, are you the men to go in for it?"

"I'm one," answers Diaz.

"And I another," growls Rocas.

"I'm not going to say nay," assents Calderon, glancing significantly at the questioner.

"Enough!" exclaims De Lara; "so far you all consent to the partnership. But before entering fully into it, it will be necessary to have a more thorough understanding, as also a more formal one. Are you willing to be bound, that there shall be truth between us?"

"We are!" is the simultaneous response of all three.

"And fidelity to the death!"

"To the death."

"Bueno! But we must take an oath to that effect. After which, you shall know what it's for. Enough now to say it's a thing that needs swearing upon. If there's to be treason, there shall be perjury also. Are you ready to take the oath?"

They signify assent unanimously.

"To your feet, then!" commands the chief conspirator. "It will be more seemly to take it standing."

All four spring up from their chairs, and stand facing the table.

De Lara draws a dagger and lays it down before him. The others have their stilettos too—a weapon carried by most Spanish Californians.

Each exhibits his own, laying it beside that already on the table.

With the four De Lara forms a cross—Maltese fashion, and then standing erect, Diaz opposite, Rocas and Calderon on either flank—he repeats in firm, solemn voice, the others after him:

"In the deed we this day agree to do, acting together and jointly, we swear to be true to each other—to stand by one another, if need be, to the death; to keep what we do a secret from all the world; and if any one betray it, the other three swear to follow him wherever he may flee, seek him wherever he may shelter himself, and take vengeance upon him, by taking his life. If any of us fail in this oath, may we be accursed ever after. Amen!"



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE "BONANZA."

The infamous ceremony duly ratified, a drink of the fiery spirit of the mescal plant—a fit finale—is quaffed. Then they take up their stilettos, replace them in their sheaths, and again sitting down, listen to De Lara, to learn from him the nature of that deed, for doing which they have so solemnly compacted.

In a short time he makes it known, the disclosure calling for but a few words. It is after all but a common affair, though one that needs skill and courage. Simply a "bit of burglary," but a big thing of its kind. He tells them of three hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold-dust lying in a lone country-house, with no other protection than that of its owner, with some half-dozen Indian domestics.

There are but two of them to whom this is news—Diaz and Calderon. Rocas smiles while the revelation is being made; for he has been the original discoverer of the so-called "bonanza." It was that he communicated to De Lara, when, on the day before, he stopped him and Calderon at the tinacal of Dolores.

It is not the first time for the seal-hunter to do business of a similar kind in conjunction with the gambler; who, like himself, has been accustomed to vary his professional pursuits. But, as now, he has always acted under De Lara—whose clear, cool head and daring hand assure him leadership in any scheme requiring superior courage, with intelligence for its execution.

"How soon?" asks Diaz, after all has been declared. "I should say the sooner the better."

"You're right about that, Don Manuel," rejoins Rocas.

"True," assents De Lara. "At the same time caution must not be lost sight of. There's two of you aware of what danger we'd be in, if just now we went near the town, or anywhere outside this snug little asylum of Senor Rocas—whose hospitality we may have to trench upon for some time. I don't know, Don Rafael, whether friend Diaz has told you of what happened last night?"

"He's given me a hint of it," replies the smuggler.

"Oh, yes," puts in Diaz; "I thought he might as well know."

"Of course," agrees De Lara. "In that case, then, I've only to add, that there will be no safety for us in San Francisco, so long as the English man-o'-war stays in port. He who broke our bank is rich enough to buy law, and can set its hounds after us by night, or by day. Until he and his ship are gone—"

"The ship is gone," says Rocas, interrupting.

"Ha! What makes you say that?"

"Because I know it."

"How?"

"Simply by having seen her. Nothing like the eyes to give one assurance about anything—with a bit of glass to assist them. Through that thing up there,"—he points to an old telescope resting on hooks against the wall—"I saw the English frigate beating out by the Farrallones, when I was up on the cliff about an hour ago. I knew her from having seen her lying in the bay. She's gone to sea for sure."

At this the others looked surprised as well as pleased; more especially Calderon. He need no longer fear encountering the much-dreaded midshipman either in a duel or with his dirk.

"It's very strange," says De Lara. "I'd heard she was to sail soon, but not till another ship came to relieve her."

"That ship has come," returns Rocas—"a corvette. I saw her working up the coast last evening just before sunset. She was making for the Gate, and must be inside now."

"If all this be true," says the chief conspirator, "we need lose no more time, but put on our masks and bring the affair off at once. It's too late for doing anything to-night; but there's no reason why we shouldn't act to-morrow night, if it prove a dark one. We four of us will be strength enough for such a trifling affair. I thought of bringing Juan Lopez, our croupier; but I saw he wouldn't be needed. Besides, from the way he's been behaving lately I've lost confidence in him. Another reason for leaving him out will be understood by all of you. In a matter of this kind it isn't the more the merrier, though it is the fewer the better cheer. The yellow dust will go farther among four than five."

"It will," exclaims the cockfighter with emphasis, showing his satisfaction at what De Lara has done. He adds: "To-morrow night, then, we are to act?"

"Yes, if it be a dark one. If not, 'twill be wiser to let things lie over for the next. A day can't make much difference; while the colour of the night may. A moonlit sky, or a clear starry one, might get us all where we'd see stars without any being visible—through a noose round our neck?"

"There'll be no moon to-morrow night," puts in the smuggler, who, in this branch of his varied vocations, has been accustomed to take account of such things. "At least," he adds, "none that will do us any harm. The fog's sure to be on before midnight; at this time of year, it always is. To-morrow night will be like the last—black as a pot of pitch."

"True," says De Lara, as a man with some experience of the sea, also having meteorological knowledge. "No doubt, 'twill be as you say, Rocas. In that case we'll have nothing to fear. We can get the job done, and be back here before morning. Ah, then seated round the table, we'll not be like we are now—poor as rats; but every one with his pile before him—sixty thousand pesos."

"Carramba!" exclaims Diaz, in a mocking tone, "while saying vespers to-night, let's put in a special prayer for to-morrow night to be what Rocas says it will—black as a pot of pitch."

The profane suggestion is hailed with a burst of ribald laughter; after which they set about preparing the mascaras, and other disguises, to be used in their nefarious enterprise.



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

"AMBRE LA PUERTA!"

Another sun has shone upon San Francisco Bay, and again gone down in red gleam over the far-spreading Pacific, leaving the sky of a leaden colour, moonless and starless.

As the hour of midnight approaches it assumes the hue predicted by Rocas, and desired by Diaz. For the ocean fog has again rolled shoreward across the peninsula, and shrouds San Francisco as with a pall. The adjacent country is covered with its funereal curtain, embracing within its folds the house of Don Gregorio Montijo.

The inmates seem all asleep, as at this hour they should. No light is seen through the windows, nor any sound heard within the walls. Not even the baying of a watch-dog, the bellow of a stalled ox, or the stamping of a horse in the stables. Inside, as without, all is silence.

The profound silence seems strange, though favourable, to four men not far from the place, and gradually, but with slow steps, drawing nearer to it. For they are approaching by stealth, as can be told by their attitudes and gestures. They advance crouchingly, now and then stopping to take a survey of the terrain in front, as they do so exchanging whispered words with one another.

Through the hazy atmosphere their figures show weird-like—all the more from their grotesque gesticulations. Even if scrutinised closely, and in clearest light, they would present this appearance; for although in human shape, and wearing the garb of men, their faces more resemble those of demons. They are human countenances, nevertheless, but en-mascaradas.

Nothing more is needed to tell who, and what they are, with their purpose in thus approaching Don Gregorio's house. They are burglars, designing to break into it.

It needs not the removal of their masks to identify them as the four conspirators left plotting in the rancho of Rafael Rocas.

They are now en route for putting their scheme into execution.

It would look as if Don Gregorio were never to get his gold to Panama— much less have it transported to Spain.

And his daughter! What of her, with Francisco de Lara drawing nigh as one of the nocturnal ravagers? His grand-daughter, too, Faustino Calderon being another?

One cognisant of the existing relations, and spectator of what is passing now—seeing the craped robbers as they steal on towards the house—would suppose it in danger of being doubly despoiled, and that its owner is to suffer desolation, not only in fortune, but in that far dearer to him—his family.

The burglars are approaching from the front, up the avenue, though not on it. They keep along its edge among the manzanita bushes. These, with the fog, afford sufficient screen to prevent their being observed from the house—even though sentinels were set upon its azotea. But there appears to be none; no eye to see, no voice to give warning, not even the bark of a watch, dog to wake those unconsciously slumbering within.

As already said, there is something strange in this. On a large grazing estate it is rare for the Molossian to be silent. More usually his sonorous voice is heard throughout the night, or at brief intervals.

Though anything but desirous to hear the barking of dogs, the burglars are themselves puzzled at the universal silence, so long continued. For before entering the enclosure they have been lying concealed in a thicket outside, their horses tied to trees, where they have now left them, and during all the time not a sound had reached their ears; no voice either of man or animal! They are now within sight of the house, its massive front looming large and dark through the mist—still no stir outside, and within the stillness of death itself!

Along with astonishment, a sense of awe is felt by one of the four criminals—Calderon, who has still some lingering reluctance as to the deed about to be done—or it may be but fear. The other three are too strong in courage, and too hardened in crime, for scruples of any kind.

Arriving at the end of the avenue, and within a short distance of the dwelling, they stop for a final consultation, still under cover of the manzanitas.

All silent as ever; no one stirring; no light from any window; the shutters closed behind the rejas—the great puerta as well!

"Now, about getting inside," says De Lara; "what will be our best way?"

"In my opinion," answers Diaz, "we'll do best by climbing up to the azotea, and over it into the patio."

"Where's your ladder?" asks Rocas, in his gruff, blunt way.

"We must find one, or something that'll serve instead. There should be loose timber lying about the corrals—enough to provide us with a climbing-pole."

"And while searching for it, wake up some of the vaqueros. That won't do."

"Then what do you propose, Rafael?" interrogates the chief conspirator.

The seal-hunter, from a presumed acquaintance with housebreaking, is listened to with attention.

"Walk straight up to the door," he answers; "knock, and ask to be admitted."

"Ay; and have a blunderbuss fired at us, with a shower of bullets big as billiard balls. Carrai!"

It is Calderon who speaks thus apprehensively.

"Not the least danger of that," rejoins Rocas. "Take my word, we'll be let in."

"Why do you think so?"

"Why? Because we have a claim on the hospitality of the house."

"I don't understand you, Rocas," says De Lara.

"Haven't we a good story to tell—simple, and to the purpose?"

"Still I don't understand. Explain yourself, Rafael."

"Don't we come as messengers from the man-o'-war—from those officers you've been telling me about?"

"Ah! now I perceive your drift."

"One can so announce himself, while the others keep out of sight. He can say he's been sent by the young gentlemen on an errand to Don Gregorio, or the senoritas, if you like. Something of importance affecting their departure. True, by this they'll know the ship's weighed anchor. No matter; the story of a message will stand good all the same."

"Rafael Rocas!" exclaims De Lara, "you're a born genius. Instead of being forced to do a little smuggling now and then, you ought to be made administrator-general of customs. We shall act as you advise. No doubt the door will be opened. When it is, one can take charge of the janitor. He's a sexagenarian, and won't be hard to hold. If he struggle, let him be silenced. The rest of us can go ransacking. You, Calderon, are acquainted with the interior, and, as you say, know the room where Don Gregorio is most likely to keep his chest. You must lead us straight for that."

"But, Francisco," whispers Calderon in the ear of his confederate, after drawing him a little apart from the other two; "about the ninas? You don't intend anything with them?"

"Certainly not—not to-night; nor in this fashion. I hope being able to approach them in gentler guise, and more becoming time. When they're without a peso in the world, they'll be less proud; and may be contented to stay a little longer in California. To-night we've enough on our hands without thinking of women. One thing at a time—their money first—themselves afterwards."

"But suppose they should recognise us?"

"They can't. Disguised as we are, I defy a man's mother to know him. If they did, then—"

"Then what?"

"No use reflecting what. Don't be so scared, man! If I'd anticipated any chance of its coming to extremes of the kind you're pondering upon, I wouldn't be here prepared for only half measures. Perhaps we sha'n't even wake the ladies up; and if we do, there's not the slightest danger of our being known. So make your mind easy, and let's get through with it. See! Diaz and Rocas are getting impatient! We must rejoin them, and proceed to business at once."

The four housebreakers again set their heads together; and after a few whispered words, to settle all particulars about their plan of proceeding, advance towards the door.

Once up to it, they stand close in, concealed by its o'ershadowing arch.

With the butt of his pistol, De Lara knocks.

Diaz, unknown to the family, and therefore without fear of his voice being recognised, is to do the talking.

No one answers the knock; and it is repeated. Louder, and still louder.

The sexagenarian janitor sleeps soundly to-night, thinks De Lara, deeming it strange.

Another "rat-at-tat" with the pistol-butt, followed by the usual formulary:

"Ambre la puerta!"

At length comes a response from within; but not the customary "Quen es?" nor anything in Spanish. On the contrary, the speech which salutes the ears of those seeking admission is in a different tongue, and tone altogether unlike that of a native Californian.

"Who the old scratch are ye?" asks a voice from inside, while a heavy footstep is heard coming along the saguan. Before the startled burglars can shape a reply, the voice continues:

"Damn ye! What d'ye want anyhow—wakin' a fellur out o' his sleep at this time o' the night? 'Twould sarve ye right if I sent a bullet through the door at ye. Take care what you're about. I've got my shootin'-iron handy; a Colt's revolver—biggest size at thet."

"Por Dios! what does this mean?" mutters De Lara.

"Tell him, Diaz," he adds, in sotto-voce to the cockfighter—"tell him we're from the British man-o'-war with—Carrai! I forgot, you don't speak English. I must do it myself. He won't know who it is." Then raising his voice: "We want to see Don Gregorio Montijo. We bring a message from the British man-o'-war—from the two officers."

"Consarn the British man-o'-war!" interrupts the surly speaker inside; "an' yur message, an' yur two officers, I know nothin' 'bout them. As for Don Gregorio, if ye want to get sight on him, ye're a preeshus way wide o' the mark. He ain't here any more. He's gin up the house, an' tuk everything o' hisn out o't this mornin'. I'm only hyar in charge o' the place. Guess you'll find both the Don an' his darters at the Parker—the most likeliest place to tree thet lot."

Don Gregorio gone!—his gold—his girls! Only an empty house, in charge of a caretaker, who carries a Colt's repeating pistol, biggest size, and would use it on the smallest provocation!

No good their going inside now, but a deal of danger. Anything but pleasant medicine would be a pill from that six-shooter.

"Carramba! Caraio! Chingara! Maldita!"

Such are the wild exclamations that issue from the lips of the disappointed housebreakers, as they turn away from the dismantled dwelling, and hasten to regain their horses.



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

A SCRATCH CREW.

It was a fortunate inspiration that led the ex-haciendado to have his gold secretly carried on board the Chilian ship; another, that influenced him to transfer his family, and household gods, to an hotel in the town.

It was all done in a day—that same day. Every hour, after the sailing of the Crusader, had he become more anxious; for every hour brought intelligence of some new act of outlawry in the neighbourhood, impressing him with the insecurity, not only of his Penates, but the lives of himself and his ladies. So long as the British ship lay in port, it seemed a protection to him; and although this may have been but fancy, it served somewhat to tranquillise his fears. Soon as she was gone, he gave way to them, summoned Silvestre, with a numerous retinue of cargadores, and swept the house clean of everything he intended taking—the furniture alone being left, as part of the purchased effects.

He has indeed reason to congratulate himself on his rapid removal, as he finds on the following day, when visiting his old home for some trifling purpose, and there hearing what had happened during the night.

The man in charge—a stalwart American, armed to the teeth—gives him a full account of the nocturnal visitors. There were four, he says— having counted them through the keyhole—inquiring for him, Don Gregorio. They appeared greatly disappointed at not getting an interview with him; and went off uttering adjurations in Spanish, though having held their parley in English.

A message from the British man-of-war! And brought by men who swore in Spanish! Strange all that, thinks Don Gregorio, knowing the Crusader should then be at least a hundred leagues off at sea.

Besides, the messengers have not presented themselves at the Parker House, to which the caretaker had directed them.

"What can it mean?" asks the ex-haciendado of himself.

Perhaps the sailor who is now first officer of the Chilian ship may know something of it; and he will question him next time he goes aboard.

He has, however, little hope of being enlightened in that quarter; his suspicions turning elsewhere. He cannot help connecting Messrs. De Lara and Calderon with the occurrence. Crozier's letter, coupled with the further information received from the bearer of it, has thrown such a light on the character of these two enhalleros, he can believe them capable of anything. After their attempt to rob the young officers, and murder them as well, they would not hesitate to serve others the same; and the demand for admission to his house may have been made by these very men, with a couple of confederates—their design to plunder it, if not do something worse.

Thus reflecting, he is thankful for having so unconsciously foiled them—indeed, deeming it a Providence.

Still is he all the more solicitous to leave a land beset with such dangers. Even in the town he does not feel safe. Robbers and murderers walk boldly abroad through the streets; not alone, but in the company of judges who have tried without condemning them; while lesser criminals stand by drinking-bars, hobnobbing with the constables who either hold them in charge, or have just released them, after a mock-hearing before some magistrate, with eyes blind as those of Justice herself—blinded by the gold-dust of California!

Notwithstanding all this, Don Gregorio need have no fear for his ladies. Their sojourn at the hotel may be somewhat irksome, and uncongenial; still they are safe. Rough-looking and boisterous as are some of their fellow-guests, they are yet in no way rude. The most refined or sensitive lady need not fear moving in their midst. A word or gesture of insult to her would call forth instant chastisement.

It is not on their account he continues anxious, but because of his unprotected treasure. Though secreted aboard the Condor, it is still unsafe. Should its whereabouts get whispered abroad, there are robbers bold enough, not only to take it from the Chilian skipper, but set fire to his ship, himself in her, and cover their crime by burning everything up.

Aware of all this, the ex-haciendado, with the help of friendly Silvestre, has half-a-dozen trusty men placed aboard of her—there to stay till a crew can be engaged. It is a costly matter, but money may save money, and now is not the time to cavil at expenses.

As yet, not a sailor has presented himself. None seem caring to ship "for Valparaiso and intermediate ports," even at the double wages offered in the Diario. The Condor's forecastle remains untenanted, except by the six longshore men, who temporarily occupy it, without exactly knowing why they are there; but contented to make no inquiry, so long as they are receiving their ten dollars a day. Of crew, there is only the captain himself, his first officer, and the cook. The orangs do not count.

Day by day, Don Gregorio grows more impatient, and is in constant communication with Silvestre.

"Offer higher wages," he says. "Engage sailors at any price."

The shipping-agent yields assent; inserts a second aviso in the Spanish paper, addressed to marineros of all nations. Triple wages to those who will take service on a well-appointed ship. In addition, all the usual allowances, the best of grub and grog. Surely this should get the Condor a crew.

And at length it does. Within twenty-four hours after the advertisement has appeared, sailors begin to show on her decks. They come singly, or in twos and threes; and keep coming till as many as half-a-score have presented themselves. They belong to different nationalities, speaking several tongues—among them English, French, and Danish. But the majority appear to be Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans—as might have been expected from the Condor being a Chilian ship.

Among them is the usual variety of facial expression; though, in one respect, a wonderful uniformity. Scarce a man of them whose countenance is not in some way unprepossessing—either naturally of sinister cast, or brought to it by a career of sinful dissipation. Several of them show signs of having been recently drinking—with eyes bleary and bloodshot. Of strife, too, its souvenirs visible in other eyes that are blackened, and scars upon cheeks not yet cicatrised. Some are still in a state of inebriety, and stagger as they stray about the decks.

Under any other circumstances, such sailors would stand no chance of getting shipped. As it is, they are accepted—not one refused. Captain Lantanas has no choice, and knows it. Without them he is helpless, and it would be hopeless for him to think of putting to sea. If he do not take them, the Candour may swing idly at her anchor for weeks, it might be months.

Quick as they came aboard, he enters their names on the ship's books, while Harry Blew assigns them their separate bunks in the forepeak. One, a Spaniard, by name Padilla, shows credentials from some former ship, which procure him the berth of piloto-segundo (second mate).

After the ten had been taken, no more present themselves. Even the big bounty offered does not tempt another tar from the saloons of San Francisco. In any other seaport, it would empty every sailors' boarding-house, to its last lodger.

And ten hands are not enough to work the good ship Condor.

Her captain knows it, and waits another day, hoping he may get a few more to complete her complement; but hopes in vain, the supply seems exhausted.

Becoming convinced of this, he determines to set sail with such crew as he has secured. But little more remains to be done; some stores to be shipped, provisions for the voyage, the best and freshest San Francisco can afford. For he who authorises their inlay cares not for the cost— only that things may be made comfortable. Don Gregorio gives carte-blanche for providing the vessel; and it is done according to his directions.

At length everything is ready, and the Condor only awaits her passengers. Her cabin has been handsomely furnished; its best state-room decorated to receive two ladies, fair as ever set foot on board ship.



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

"ADIOS CALIFORNIA!"

A bright sun rises over San Francisco, in all likelihood the last Don Gregorio Montijo will ever witness in California. For just as the orb of day shows its disc above the dome-shaped silhouette of Monte Diablo, flinging its golden shimmer across the bay, a boat leaves the town-pier, bearing him and his towards the Chilian vessel, whose signals for sailing are out.

Others are in the boat; a large party of ladies and gentlemen, who accompany them to do a last handshaking on board. For, in quitting California, the ex-haciendado leaves many friends behind; among them, some who will pass sleepless hours thinking of Carmen Montijo; and others whose hearts will be sore as their thoughts turn to Inez Alvarez.

It may be that none of those are present now; and better for them if not; since the most painful of all partings is that where the lover sees his sweetheart sail away, with the knowledge she cares neither to stay, nor come back.

The young ladies going off show but little sign of regret at leaving. They are hindered by remembrance of the last words spoken at another parting, now painfully recalled: "Hasta Cadiz!" The thought of that takes the sting out of this.

The boat reaches the ship, and swinging around, lies alongside.

Captain Lantanas stands by the gangway to receive his passengers, with their friends; while his first officer helps them up the man-ropes.

Among the ladies, Harry Blew distinguishes the two he is to have charge of, and with them is specially careful. As their soft-gloved fingers rest in his rough horny hand, he mentally registers a vow that it shall never fail them in the hour of need—if such there ever be.

On the cabin-table is spread a refection of the best; and around it the leave-takers assemble, the Chilian skipper doing the honours of his ship. And gracefully, for he is a gentleman.

Half-an-hour of merry-making, light chatter, enlivened by the popping of corks, and clinking of glasses; then ten minutes of converse more serious; after which hurried graspings of the hand and a general scattering towards the shore-boat, which soon after moves off amid exclamations of "Adios!" and "Bueno viage!" accompanied by the waving of hands, and white slender fingers saluting with tremulous motion—like the quiver of a kestrel's wing—the fashion of the Spanish-american fair.

While the boat is being rowed back to the shore, the Condor puts out her canvas, and stands away towards the Golden Gate.

She is soon out of sight of the port; having entered the strait which gives access to the great land-locked estuary. But a wind blowing in from the west hinders her; and she is all the day tacking through the eight miles of narrow water which connects San Francisco Bay with the Pacific.

The sun is nigh set as she passes the old Spanish fort and opens view of the outside ocean. But the heavenly orb that rose over Mont Diablo like a globe of gold goes down beyond 'Los Farrallones' more resembling a ball of fire about to be quenched hissing in the sea.

It is still only half-immersed behind the blue expanse, when, gliding out from the portals of the Golden Gate, the Condor rounds Seal Rock, and stands on her course West-South-West.

The wind shifts, the evening breeze begins to blow steadily from the land. This is favourable; and after tacks have been set, and sails sheeted home, there is but little work to be done.

It is the hour of the second dog-watch, and the sailors are all on deck, grouped about the fore hatch, and gleefully conversing. Here and there an odd individual stands by the side, with eyes turned shoreward, taking a last look at the land. Not as if he regretted leaving it, but is rather glad to get away. More than one of that crew have reason to feel thankful that the Chilian craft is carrying them from a country, where, had they stayed much longer, it would have been to find lodgment in a jail. Out at sea, their faces seem no better favoured than when they first stepped aboard. Scarce recovered from their shore carousing, they show swollen cheeks, and eyes inflamed with alcohol; countenances from which the breeze of the Pacific, however pure, cannot remove that sinister cast.

At sight of them, and the two fair creatures sailing in the same ship, a thought about the incongruity—as also the insecurity of such companionship—cannot help coming uppermost. It is like two beautiful birds of Paradise shut up in the same cage with wolves, tigers, and hyenas.

But the birds of Paradise are not troubling themselves about this, or anything else in the ship. Lingering abaft the binnacle, with their hands resting on the taffrail, they look back at the land, their eyes fixed upon the summit of a hill, ere long to become lost to their view by the setting of the sun. They have been standing so for some time in silence, when Inez says:

"I can tell what you're thinking of, tia."

"Indeed, can you? Well, let me hear it."

"You're saying to yourself: 'What a beautiful hill that is yonder; and how I should like to be once more upon its top—not alone, but with somebody beside me.' Now, tell the truth, isn't that it?"

"Those are your own thoughts, sobrina."

"I admit it, and also that they are pleasant. So are yours; are they not?"

"Only in part. I have others, which I suppose you can share with me."

"What others?"

"Reflections not at all agreeable, but quite the contrary."

"Again distressing yourself about that! It don't give me the slightest concern; and didn't from the first."

"No?"

"No!"

"Well; I must say you take things easily—which I don't. A lover— engaged, too—to go away in that sans facon way! Not so much as a note, nor even a verbal message. Santissima! it was something more than rude—it was cruel; and I can't help thinking so."

"But there was a message in the letter to grandpapa, for both of us. What more would you wish?"

"Pff! who cares for parting compliments? A lepero would send better to his sweetheart in sleeveless camisa. That's not the message for me."

"How can you tell there wasn't some other which has miscarried? I'm almost sure there has been; else why should somebody have knocked at the door an' said so. The Americano left in charge of the house has told grandpa something about four men having come there the night after we left it. One may have been this messenger we've missed—the others going with him for company. And through his neglect we've not got letters intended for us. Or, if they haven't written, it's because they were pressed for time. However, we shall know when we meet them at Cadiz."

"Ah! when we meet them there, I'll demand an explanation from Eduardo. That shall I, and get it—or know the reason why."

"He will have a good one, I warrant. There's been a miscarriage, somehow. For hasn't there been mystery all round? Luckily, no fighting, as we feared, and have reason to rejoice. Neither anything seen or heard of your California!! chivalry! That's the strangest thing of all."

"It is indeed strange," rejoins Carmen, showing emotion; "I wonder what became of them. Nobody that we know has met either after that day; nor yet heard word of them."

"Carmen, I believe one has heard of them."

"Who?"

"Your father."

"What makes you think so, Inez!"

"Some words I overheard, while he was conversing with the English sailor who's now in the ship with us. I'm almost certain there was something in Mr Crozier's letter relating to De Lara and Calderon. What it was, grandpa seems desirous of keeping to himself; else he would have told us. We must endeavour to find it out from the sailor."

"You're a cunning schemer, sobrina. I should never have thought of that. We shall try. Now I remember, Eduardo once saved this man's life. Wasn't it a noble, daring deed? For all, I'm very angry with him, leaving me as he has done; and sha'n't be pacified until I see him on his knees, and he apologise for it. That he shall do at Cadiz!"

"To confess the truth, tia, I was a little spited myself at first. On reflection, I feel sure there's been some mischance, and we've been wronging them both. I sha'n't blame my darling till I see him again. Then if he can't clear himself, oh, won't I!"

"You forgive too easily. I can't."

"Yes, you can. Look at yonder hill. Recall the pleasant hour passed upon it, and you will be lenient, as I am."

Carmen obeys, and again turns her glance toward the spot consecrated by sweetest remembrances.

As she continues to gaze at it, the cloud lifts from her brow, replaced by a smile, and promises easy pardon to him who has offended her.

In silence the two stand, straining their eyes upon the far summit, till shore and sea become one—both blending into the purple of twilight.

"Adios, California!"

Land no longer in sight. The ship is au large on the ocean.



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

A TATTOO THAT NEEDS RETOUCHING.

The great Pacific current in many respects resembles the Gulf Stream of the Atlantic. Passing eastward under the Aleutian Archipelago, it impinges upon the American continent by Vancouver's Island; thence setting southward, along the Californian coast, curves round horseshoe shape, and sets back for the central part of the South Sea, sweeping on past the Sandwich Isles.

By this disposition, a ship bound from San Francisco for Honolulu has the flow in her favour; and if the wind be also favourable, she will make fast way.

As chance has it, both are propitious to the Crusader, and the warship standing for the Sandwich Islands will likely reach them after an incredibly short voyage.

There are two individuals on board of her who wish it to be so; counting every day, almost every hour, of her course. Not that they have any desire to visit the dominions of King Kamehameha, or expect pleasure there. On the contrary, if left to themselves, the frigate's stay in the harbour of Honolulu would not last longer than necessary to procure a boat-load of bananas, and replenish her hen-coops with fat Kanaka fowls.

It is scarce necessary to say that they, who are thus indifferent to the delights of Owyhee, are the late-made lieutenant, Crozier, and the midshipman, Cadwallader. For them the brown-skinned Hawaian beauties will have little attraction. Not the slightest danger of either yielding to the blandishments so lavishly bestowed upon sailors by these seductive damsels of the Southern Sea. For the hearts of both are yet thrilling with the remembrance of smiles vouchsafed them by other daughters of the sunny south, of a far different race—thrilling, too, with the anticipation of again basking in their smiles under the sky of Andalusia.

It needs hope—all they can command—to cheer them. Not because the time is great, and the place distant. Sailors are accustomed to long separation from those they love, and, therefore, habituated to patience. It is no particular uneasiness of this kind which shadows their brows, and makes every mile of the voyage seem a league.

Nor are their spirits clouded by any reflections on that, which so chafed them just before leaving San Francisco. If they have any feelings about it, they are rather those of repentance for suspicions, which both believe to have been unfounded, as unworthy.

What troubles them now—for they are troubled—has nought to do with that. Nor is it any doubt as to the loyalty of their fiancee; but fear for their safety. It is not well-defined; but like some dream which haunts them—at times so slight as to cause little concern, at others, filling them with keen anxiety.

But in whatever degree felt, it always assumes the same shape—two figures conspicuous in it, besides those of their betrothed sweethearts—two faces of evil omen, one that of Calderon, the other De Lara's.

What the young officers saw of these men, and what more they learnt of them before leaving San Francisco, makes natural their misgivings, and justifies their fears. Something seems to whisper them, that there is danger to be dreaded from the gamblers—desperadoes as they have shown themselves—that through them some eventuality may arise, affecting the future of Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez—even to prevent their escaping from California.

Escape! Yes; that is the word which Crozier and Cadwallader make use of in their conversation on the subject—the form in which their fear presents itself.

Before reaching the Sandwich Islands, they receive a scrap of intelligence, which in some respect cheers them. It has become known to the Crusader's crew that the frigate is to make but short stay there— will not even enter the harbour of Honolulu. The commission entrusted to her captain is of no very important nature. He is simply to leave an official despatch, with some commands for the British consul: after which head round again, and straight for Panama.

"Good news; isn't it, Ned?" says Cadwallader to his senior, as the two on watch together stand conversing. "With the quick time we've made from 'Frisco, as the Yankees call it, and no delay to speak of in the Sandwiches, we ought to get to the Isthmus nearly as soon as the Chilian ship."

"True; but it will a good deal depend on the time the Chilian ship leaves San Francisco. No doubt she'd have great difficulty in getting a sufficient number of hands. Blew told you there was but the captain and himself!"

"Only they; and the cook, an old darkey—a runaway slave, he said. Besides a brace of great red baboons—orangs. That was the whole of her crew, by last report! Well; in one way we ought to be glad she's so short," continues the midshipman. "It may give us the chance of reaching Panama soon as she, if not before her; and, as the frigate's destined to put into that port, we may meet the dear girls again, sooner than we expected."

"I hope and trust we shall. I'd give a thousand pounds to be sure of it. It would lift a load off my mind—the heaviest I've ever had on it."

"Off mine, too. But even if we don't reach Panama soon as the Chilian craft, we'll hear whether she's passed through there. If she have, that'll set things right enough. We'll then know they're safe, and will be so—'Hasta Cadiz'."

"It seems a good omen," says Crozier, reflectingly, "that we are not to be delayed at the Islands."

"It does," rejoins Cadwallader; "though, but for the other thing, I'd like it better if we had to stay there—only for a day or two."

"For what reason?"

"There!" says the midshipman, pulling up his shirtsleeve, and laying bare his arm to the elbow. "Look at that, lieutenant!"

The lieutenant looks, and sees upon the skin, white as alabaster, a bit of tattooing. It is the figure of a young girl, somewhat scantily robed, with long streaming tresses: hair, contour, countenance, everything done in the deepest indigo.

"Some old sweetheart?" suggests Crozier.

"It is."

"But she can't be a Sandwich Island belle. You've never been there?"

"No, she isn't. She's a little Chilena, whose acquaintance I made last spring, while we lay at Valparaiso. Grummet, the cutter's coxswain, did the tattoo for me, as we came up the Pacific. He hadn't quite time to finish it as you see. There was to be a picture of the Chilian flag over her head, and underneath the girl's name, or initials. I'm now glad they didn't go in."

"But what the deuce has all this to do with the Sandwich Islands?"

"Only, that, there, I intended to have the thing taken out again. Grummet tells me he can't do it, but that the Kanakas can. He says they've got some trick for extracting the stain, without scarring the skin, or only very slightly."

"But why should you care about removing it? I acknowledge tattooing is not nice, on the epidermis of a gentleman; and I've met scores, like yourself, sorry for having submitted to it. After all, what does it signify? Nobody need ever see it, unless you wish them to."

"There's where you mistake. Somebody might see it, without my wishing—sure to see it, if ever I get—"

"What?"

"Spliced."

"Ah! Inez?"

"Yes; Inez. Now you understand why I'd like to spend a day or two among the South Sea Islanders. If I can't get the thing rubbed out, I'll be in a pretty mess about it. I know Inez would be indulgent in a good many ways; but when she sees that blue image on my arm, she'll look black enough. And what am I to say to her? I told her, she was the first sweetheart I ever had; as you know, Ned, a little bit of a fib. Only a white one; for the Chilena was but a mere fancy, gone out of my mind long ago; as, no doubt, I am out of hers. The question is, how's her picture to be got out of my skin? I'd give something to know."

"If that's all your trouble, you needn't be at any expense—except what you may tip old Grummet. You say he has not completed the portrait of your Chilena. That's plain enough, looking at the shortness of her skirts. Now let him go on, and lengthen them a little. Then finish by putting a Spanish flag over her head, instead of the Chilian, as you intended, and underneath the initials 'I.A.' With that on your arm, you may safely show it to Inez."

"A splendid idea! The very thing! The only difficulty is, that this picture of the Chilian girl isn't anything like as good-looking as Inez. Besides, it would never pass for her portrait."

"Let me see. I'm not so sure about that. I think, with a few more touches, it will stand well enough for your Andalusian. Grummet's given her all the wealth of hair you're so constantly bragging about. The only poverty's in that petticoat. But if you get the skirt stretched a bit, that will remedy it. You want sleeves, too, to make her a lady. Then set a tall tortoise-shell comb upon her crown, with a spread of lace over it, hanging down below the shoulders—the mantilla—and you'll make almost as good an Andalusian of her as is Inez herself."

"By Jove! you're right; it can be done. The bit added to the skirt will look like a flounced border; the Spanish ladies have such on their dresses. I've seen them. And a fan—they have that too. She must have one."

"By all means, give her a fan. And as you're doubtful about the likeness, let it be done so as to cover her face—at least the lower half of it; that will be just as they carry it. You can hide that nose, which is a trifle too snub for your fiancee. The eyes appear good enough."

"The Chilena had splendid eyes!"

"Of course, or she wouldn't have her portrait on your arm. But how did the artist know that? Has he ever seen the original?"

"No; I described her to him; and he's well acquainted with the costume the Chilian girls wear. He's seen plenty of such. I told him to make the face a nice oval, with a small mouth, and pretty pouting lips; then to give her great big eyes. You see he's done all that."

"He has, certainly."

"About the feet? They'll do, won't they? They're small enough, I should say."

"Quite small enough; and those ankles are perfection. They ought to satisfy your Andalusian—almost flatter her."

"Flatter her! I should think not. They might your Biscayan, with her big feet; but not Inez; who's got the tiniest little understandings I ever saw under the skirt of a petticoat—tall as she is."

"Stuff!" scornfully retorts Crozier; "that's a grand mistake people make about small feet. It's not the size, but the shape, that's to be admired. They should be in proportion to the rest of the body; otherwise they're a monstrosity—as among the Chinese, for instance. And as for small feet in men, about which the French pride, and pinch themselves, why every tailor's got that."

"Ha, ha ha!" laughs the young Welshman. "A treatise on Orthopoedia, or whatever it's called. Well, I shall let the Chilena's feet stand, with the ankles too, and get Grummet to add on the toggery."

"What if your Chilena should chance to set eyes on the improved portrait? Remember we're to call at Valparaiso!"

"By Jove! I never thought of that."

"If you should meet her, you'll do well to keep your shirt-sleeves down, or you may get the picture scratched—your cheeks along with it."

"Bah! there's no danger of that. I don't expect ever to see that girl again—don't intend to. It wouldn't be fair, after giving that engagement ring to Inez. If we do put into Valparaiso, I'll stay aboard all the time the frigate's in port. That will insure against any—"

"Land ho!"

Their dialogue is interrupted. The lookout on the masthead has sighted Mauna-Loa.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

A CREW THAT MEANS MUTINY.

A Ship sailing down the Pacific, on the line of longitude 125 degrees West. Technically speaking, not a ship, but a barque, as may be told by her mizzen-sails, set fore and aft.

Of all craft encountered on the ocean, there is none so symmetrically beautiful as the barque. Just as the name looks well on the page of poetry and romance, so is the reality itself on the surface of the sea. The sight is simply perfection.

And about the vessel in question another graceful peculiarity is observable: her masts are of the special kind called polacca—in one piece from step to truck.

Such vessels are common enough in the Mediterranean, and not rare in Spanish-American ports. They may be seen at Monte Video, Buenos Ayres, and Valparaiso—to which last this barque belongs. For she is Chilian built; her tall tapering masts made of trees from the ancient forests of Araucania. Painted upon the stern is the name El Condor; and she is the craft commanded by Captain Antonio Lantanas.

This may seem strange. In the harbour of San Francisco the Condor was a ship. How can she now be a barque?

The answer is easy, as has been the transformation; and a word will explain it. For the working of her sails, a barque requires fewer hands than a ship. Finding himself with a short crew, Captain Lantanas has resorted to a stratagem, common in such cases, and converted his vessel accordingly. The conversion was effected on the day before leaving San Francisco; so that the Condor, entering the Golden Gate a ship, stood out of it a barque. As such she is now on the ocean, sailing southward along the line of longitude 125 degrees West. In the usual track taken by sailing-vessels between Upper California and the Isthmus, she has westered, to get well clear of the coast, and catch the regular winds, that, centuries ago, wafted the spice-laden Spanish galleons from the Philippines to Acapulco. A steamer would hug the shore, keeping the brown barren mountains of Lower California in view. Instead, the Condor has sheered wide from the land; and, in all probability, will not again sight it till she's bearing up to Panama Bay.

It is the middle watch of the night—the first after leaving San Francisco. Eight bells have sounded, and the chief mate is in charge, the second having turned in, along with the division of crew allotted to him. The sea is tranquil, the breeze light, blowing from the desired quarter, so that there is nothing to call for any unusual vigilance.

True, the night is dark, but without portent of storm. It is, as Harry Blew knows, only a thick rain-cloud, such as often shadows this part of the Pacific.

But the darkness need not be dreaded. They are in too low a latitude to encounter icebergs; and upon the wide waters of the South Sea there is not much danger of collision with ships.

Notwithstanding these reasons for feeling secure, the chief officer of the Condor paces her decks with a brow clouded, as the heavens over his head; while the glance of his eye betrays anxiety of no ordinary kind. It cannot be from any apprehension about the weather. He does not regard the sky, nor the sea, nor the sails. On the contrary, he moves about, not with bold, manlike step, as one having command of a vessel, but stealthily, now and then stopping and standing in crouched attitude, within the deeper shadow thrown upon the decks by masts, bulwarks, and boats. He seems less to occupy himself about the ropes, spars, and sails, than the behaviour of those who work them. Not while they are working them either, but more when they are straying idly along the gangways, or clustered in some corner, and conversing. In short, he appears to be playing spy on them.

For this he has his reasons. And for all good ones. Before leaving port he had discovered the incapacity of the crew, so hastily scraped together. A bad lot, he could see at first sight—rough, ribald, and drunken. In all there are eleven of them, the second mate included; the last, as already stated, a Spaniard, by name Padilla. There are three others of the same race—Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans—Gil Gomez, Jose Hernandez, and Jacinto Velarde; two Englishmen, Jack Striker and Bill Davis; a Frenchman, by name La Crosse; a Dutchman, and a Dane; the remaining two being men whose nationality is difficult to determine, and scarce known to themselves—such as may be met on almost every ship that sails the sea.

The chief officer of the Condor, accustomed to a man-o'-war, with its rigid discipline, is already disgusted with what is going on aboard the merchantman. He was so before leaving San Francisco, having also some anxiety about the navigation of the vessel. With a crew so incapable, he anticipated difficulty, if not danger. But now that he is out upon the open ocean, he is sure of the first, and keenly apprehensive of the last. For, in less than a single day's sailing, he has discovered that the sailors, besides counting short, are otherwise untrustworthy. Several of them are not sailors at all, but "longshore" men; one or two mere "land-lubbers," who never laid hand upon a ship's rope before clutching those of the Condor. With such, what chance will there be for working the ship in a storm? But there is a danger he dreads far more than the mismanagement of ropes and sails—insubordination. Even thus early, it has shown itself among the men, and may at any moment break out into open mutiny. All the more likely from the character of Captain Lantanas, with which he has become well acquainted.

The Chilian skipper is an easy-going man, given to reading books of natural history, and collecting curiosities—as evinced by his brace of Bornean apes, and other specimens picked up during his trading trip to the Indian Archipelago. A man in every way amiable, but just on this account the most unfitted to control a crew, such as that he has shipped for the voyage to Valparaiso.

Absorbed in his studies, he takes little notice of them, leaving them in the hands, and to the control, of his piloto, Harry Blew.

But the ex-man-o'-war's man, though a typical British sailor, is not one of the happy-go-lucky kind. He has been entrusted with something more than the navigation of the Chilian ship—with the charge of two fair ladies in her cabin; and although these have not shown themselves on deck, he knows they are safe, and well waited on by the black cook; who is also steward, and who, under his rough sable skin, has a kindly, gentle heart.

It is when thinking of his cabin passengers, that the Condor's first officer feels apprehensive, and then not from the incapacity of her sailors, but their bold, indeed almost insolent, behaviour. Their having shown something of this at first might have been excusable, or at all events, capable of explanation. They had not yet sobered down. Fresh from the streets of San Francisco, so lawless and licentious, it could not be expected. But most of them have been now some days aboard—no drink allowed them save the regular ration, with plenty of everything else. Kind treatment from captain and mate, and still they appear scowling and discontented, as if the slightest slur—an angry word, even a look—would make mutiny among them.

What can it mean? What do the men want?

A score of times has Harry Blew thus interrogated himself, without receiving satisfactory answer. It is to obtain this, he is now gliding silently about the decks, and here and there concealing himself in shadow, with the hope of overhearing some speech that will give him explanation of the conspiracy—if conspiracy it be.

And in this hope he is not deceived or disappointed, but successful beyond his most sanguine expectations. For he at length obtains a clue, not only to the insubordination of the sailors, but all else that has been puzzling him.

And a strange problem it is, its solution appalling.

He gets the latter while standing under a piece of sailcloth, spread from the rail to the top of the round-house—rigged up by the carpenter as a sun screen, while doing some work during the heat of the day, and so left. The sky being now starless and pitch-black, with this additional obstruction to light, Harry Blew stands in obscurity impenetrable to the eye. A man passing, so close as almost to touch, could not possibly see him.

Nor is he seen by two men, who, like himself, sauntering about, have come to a stop under the spread canvas. Unlike him, however, they are not silent, but engaged in conversation, in a low tone, still loud enough for him to hear every word said. And to every one he listens with interest so engrossing, that his breath is well nigh suspended.

He understands what is said; all the easier from their talk being carried on in English—his own tongue. For they who converse are Jack Striker and Bill Davis.

And long before their dialogue comes to a close, he has not only obtained intelligence of what has hitherto perplexed him, but gets a glimpse of something beyond—that which sets his hair on end, almost causing the blood to curdle in his veins.



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

TWO "SYDNEY DUCKS."

Jack Striker and Bill Davis are "Sydney Ducks," who have seen service in the chain-gangs of Australia. They have also served as sailors, this being their original calling. But since a certain voyage to the Swan River settlement—in which they were but passengers, sent out at the expense of Her Britannic Majesty's Government—they have had aversion to the sea, and only take to it intermittently—when under the necessity of working passage from port to port for other purposes. Escaping from a colonisation forced upon them, and quite uncongenial, they had thus made their way into California; and, after a run up the Sacramento, and a spell at gold-seeking, with but indifferent success, had returned to San Francisco; in the Queen City of the Pacific—finding ways of life they liked better than the hard labour of pick, pan, and cradle. Loitering among its low sailor-haunts, they encountered a pleasant surprise, by meeting a man who offered them five thousand dollars each to ship in a merchant-vessel, for the "short trip" to Panama! A wage so disproportioned to the service asked for, of course called for explanation; which the princely contractor gave, after having secured their confidence. It proved satisfactory to the Sydney Ducks, who, without further questioning, entered into the contract. The result was their getting conducted aboard the Condor—she being the vessel bound for the port of Panama.

He who had given them this handsome engagement was not the owner of the ship; no more was he her captain or supercargo; but a gentleman representing himself authorised to accept their services, for a somewhat different purpose than the mere working of her sails; and who promised to pay them in a peculiar manner—under certain contingencies, even more than the sum stipulated, notwithstanding its magnificence.

The conditions were partially made known to them before setting foot on the ship; and though an honest sailor would scornfully have rejected them—even in the face of such tempting reward—Jack Striker and Bill Davis have accepted them without scruple or cavil. For they are not honest sailors; but ex-convicts, criminals still unreformed, and capable of any misdeed—piracy, or murder—if only money can be made thereby.

Since coming aboard the Condor, and mixing with her crew, they have had additional insight into the character of their contract, and the services required of them. They find that several other men have been engaged in a somewhat similar way; and at a like bounteous wage—for a while wondering at it—till after a mutual comparison of notes, and putting together their respective scraps of intelligence, with surmises added, they have arrived at a pretty accurate understanding of how the land lies, and why their entrepreneur—who is no other than the second mate, Padilla—has been so liberal.

Striker, who has seen more of the world, and is the elder of the two "ducks," has been the first to obtain this added information; and it is for the purpose of communicating it to his old chum of the chain-gang, he has asked the latter to step aside with him. For chancing to be cast together in the middle watch, an opportunity offers, which the older convict has all that day been looking out for.

Davis, of more talkative habit, is the first to break silence; which he does on the instant of their ducking under the sailcloth.

"Well, old pal! what d'ye think of our present employ? Better than breakin' stone for them Swan River roads, with twenty pound of iron chain clinkin' at a fellow's ankles. An't it?"

"Better'n that, yes; but not's good as it might be."

"Tut, man, you're always grumblin'. Five thousand dollars for a trip that isn't like to run up to a month—not more than a fortnight or three weeks, I should say! If that don't content you, I'd like to know what would."

"Well, mate; I'll tell'ee what wud. Thirty thousand for the trip. An' Jack Striker an't like to be satisfied wi' anythin' much short o' that sum."

"You're joking, Jack?"

"No, I an't, Bill. As you knows, I'm not o' the jokin' sort; an' now mean what I say, sartin as I ever meant anythin' in my life. Both me an' you oughter get thirty thousand apiece o' this yellow stuff—that at the werry least."

"Why, there wouldn't be enough to go round the lot that's in."

"Yes, thar wud, an' will. Old as I am, I hain't yit quite lost hearin'. My yeers are as sharp as they iver wor, an' jist as reliable. Larst night I heerd a whisper pass atween Padilla an' another o' them Spanish chaps, that's put me up to somethink."

"What did you hear?"

"That the swag'll tot up to the total o' three hundred thousand dollars."

"The deuce it will! Why, they said it wasn't half that much. Padilla himself told me so."

"No matter what he's told you. I tell ye now, it's all o' the six figures I've sayed. In coorse, it's their interest to make it out small as they possibly can; seein' as our share's to be a percentage. I know better now; an' knowin' it, an't agoin' to stan' none o' theer nonsense. Neyther shud you, Bill. We both o' us are 'bout to risk the same as any o' the t'others."

"That's true enough."

"In coorse it is. An' bein' so, we oughter share same as them; can, an' will, if we stick well thegither. It's jest as eezy one way as t'other."

"There's something in what you say, mate."

"Theer's every thin' in it, an' nothin' more than our rights. As I've sayed, we all risk the same, an' that's gettin' our necks streetched. For if we make a mucker o' the job, it'll be a hangin' matter sure. An' I dar say theer's got to be blood spilt afore it's finished."

"What would you advise our doing? You know, Jack, I'll stand by you, whatever you go in for."

"Well; I want it to be a fair divide, all round; detarmined it shell be. Why shud the four Spanish fellas get a dollar more'n us others? As I've obsarved, two of them, Gomez an' Hernandez, have set theer eyes on the weemen folks. It's eezy to see that's part o' theer game. Beside, I heerd them talkin' o't. Gomez be arter the light girl, an' Hernandez the dark un. 'Bout that, they may do as they like for ought's I care. But it's all the more reezun why they oughtent be so greedy 'bout the shinin' stuff. As for Mister Gomez, it's plain he's the head man o' the lot; an' the second mate, who engaged us, is only same's the others, an' 'pears to be controlled by him. 'Twar 'tween them two I overheerd the confab; Gomez sayin' to Padilla that the dust lyin' snug in the cabin-lockers was full valley for three hundred thousan'. An' as theer's eleven o' us to share, that 'ud be nigh on thirty thousan' apiece, if my 'rithmetic an't out o' recknin'. Bill Davis; I say, we oughter stan' up for our rights."

"Certainly we should. But there'll be difficulty in getting them, I fear."

"Not a bit—not a morsel, if we stick out for 'em. The four Spanyards means to go snacks 'mong themselves. But theer be seven o' us outsiders; an' when I tell the others what I've tolt you, they'll be all on our side—if they an't the foolishest o' fools."

"They won't be that, I take it. A difference of twenty thousand dollars or so in their favour, will make them sensible enough. But what's to be the upshot, or, as they call it in the theatre play-bills, what's the programme!"

"Well, mate, so far as I've been put up to it, we're to run on till we get to the coast, somewheer near the Issmus o' Panyma. Theer we'll sight land, and soon's we do, the ship's to be scuttled—we first securin' the swag,' an' takin' it ashore in one o' the boats. We're to land on some part o' the coast that's known to Gomez, he says. Then we're to make for some town, when we've got things straight for puttin' in appearance in a explainable way. Otherways, we might get pulled up, an' all our trouble 'ud be for nowt. Worse, every man-Jack on us 'ud have a good chance to swing for it."

"And the young ladies?"

"They're to go along wi' Gomez an' Hernandez. How they mean to manage it, I can't tell ye. They'll be a trouble, no doubt, as allers is wi' weemen, an' it be a pity we're hampered wi' 'em; mor'n that, it's reg'lar dangersome. They may get the hul kit o' us into a scrape. Howsever, we'll hev to take our chances, since theer's no help for it. The two chaps 'pear to be reg'lar struck with 'em. Well, let 'em carry off the gurls an' welcome. But, as I've sayed, thet oughter make 'em less objectin' to a fair divide o' the dust."

"What's to be done with the others—the old Spaniard and skipper, with the black cook and first mate?"

"They're to go down wi' the ship. The intenshun is, to knock all o' 'em on the head, soon's we come in sight o' land."

"Well, Jack, for the first three I don't care a brass farthing. They're foreigners and blacks; therefore, nothing to us. But, as Blew chances to be a countryman of ours, I'd rather it didn't go so hard with him."

"Balderdash, Bill Davis! What have you or me to do wi' feelins o' that sort? Countryman, indeed! A fine country, as starves ten millions o' the like o' us two; an' if we try to take what by nateral right's our own, sends us out o' it wi' handcuffs round our wrists, an' iron jewellery on our ankles! All stuff an' psalm-singin' that 'bout one's own country, an' fella-countryman. If we let him off, we might meet him somewhere, when we an't a-wantin' to. He'll have to be sarved same as the t'other three. There be no help for't, if we don't want to have hemp roun' our thrapples."

"I suppose you're right, Striker; though it does seem a pity too. But what reason have the Spaniards for keepin' the thing back? Why should they wait till we get down by Panama? As the yellow stuff's lyin' ready, sure it might be grabbed at once, an' then we'd have more time to talk of how it's to be divided? What's the difficulty about our taking it now?"

"'Tant the takin' o' it. That'll be eezy work; an' when the time comes, we'll have it all our own way. We could toss the four overboard in the skippin' o' a flea. But then, how's the ship to be navvygated without the skipper an' first mate?"

"Surely we can do without them?"

"That's jest what we can't. O' all our crew, theer's only them two as hev the knowledge o' charts an' chronometers, an' the like; for him as is actin' second confesses he don't know nothin' 'bout sich. Tharfor, though we're in a good sound craft, without the skipper, or Blew, we'd be most as good as helpless. We're now on the biggest o' all oceans, an' if we stood on the wrong tack, we might niver set eyes on land—or only to be cast away on some dangersome shore. Or, what 'ud be bad as eyther, get overhauled by some man-o'-war, an' not able to gie account o' ourselves. Theer's the diffyculty, don't 'ee see, Bill? For thet reezun the Spanyards have agreed to let things alone till we've ran down nigh Panyma. Theer Gomez says he knows o' a long streetch o' uninhabited coast, where we'll be safe goin' ashore."

"Well, I suppose that'll be the best way, after all. If a man has the money, it don't make much difference where he sets foot on shore; an' no doubt we'll find sport down at Panyma, good as anywheres else."

"Theer ye be right, Bill. When a cove's flush there's pleasurin' iverywhere. Goold's the only thing as gives it."

"With the prospect of such big plunder, we can afford to be patient," says Davis resignedly.

"I an't agoin' to be patient for the paltry five thousand they promised. No, Bill; neyther must you. We've equal rights wi' the rest, an' we must stan' out for 'em."

"Soon as you say the word, Jack, I'm at your back. So'll all the others, who're in the same boat with ourselves."

"They oughter, an' belike will; tho' theer's a weak-witted fool or two as may take talkin' into it. I means to go at 'em the night, soon's I've finished my trick at the wheel, the which 'll soon be on. Ay! theer's the bells now! I must aft. When I come off, Bill, you be up by the night-heads, an' have that Dutch chap as is in our watch 'long wi' ye; an' also the Dane. They're the likeliest to go in wi' us at oncet, an' we'll first broach it to them."

"All right, old pal; I'll be there."

The two plotters step out from under the awning; Striker turning aft to take his "trick" at the wheel, the other sauntering off in the direction of the forecastle.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

AN APPALLING PROSPECT.

Harry Blew stands aghast—his hair on end, the blood coursing chill through his veins.

No wonder, after listening to such revelations! A plot diabolical—a scheme of atrocity unparalleled—comprising three horrible crimes: robbery, the abduction of women, and the murder of men; and among the last, himself.

Now knows he the cause of the crew's insubordination; too clearly comprehends it. Three hundred thousand dollars of gold-dust stowed in the cabin-lockers!

News to him; for Captain Lantanas had not made him acquainted with the fact—the treasure having been shipped before his coming aboard. Indeed, on that same night when he went after Silvestre; for at the very time he was knocking at the ship-agent's office-door, Don Tomas, with a trusty waterman, was engaged in putting it aboard the Chilian ship.

An unfortunate arrangement, after all. And now too certain of ending disastrously, not only for Don Gregorio, but those dear to him, with others less interested, yet linked to his fate.

Though the ex-man-o'-war's man is neither doubtful nor incredulous of what he has just heard, it is some time before his mind can grasp all the details. So filled is he with astonishment, it is natural his thoughts should be confused, and himself excited.

But soon he reflects calmly; and revolving everything over, perceives clearly enough what are the crimes to be committed, with the motives for committing them. There can be no ambiguity about the nature of the nefarious conspiracy. It has all been hatched, and pre-arranged, on shore; and the scoundrels have come aboard specially for its execution. The four Spaniards—or Californians, as he believes them to be—must have had knowledge of the treasure being shipped, and, in their plan to appropriate it, have engaged the others to assist them. Striker's talk has told this; while revealing also the still more fiendish designs of abduction and murder.

The prospect is appalling; and as he reflects upon it, Harry Blew feels his heart sink within him—strong though that heart be. For a dread fate is impending over himself, as well as those he has promised to protect.

How it is to be averted! How he is to save Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez! How save himself?

These questions come crowding together, and repeat themselves over and over; but without suggesting answer. He cannot think of one that is satisfactory; he sees no chance of escape. The crew are all in the plot—every man of them—either as principals, or engaged assistants. The conversation of the two convicts has told this. The second mate same as the rest; which to him, Harry Blew, causes no surprise. He had already made up his mind about Padilla; observing his sympathy with those who were showing insubordination. He had also noticed that whatever was up among them, Gil Gomez was the directing spirit; dominating Padilla, notwithstanding the latter's claim to superior authority as one of the ship's officers; while Velarde and Hernandez seemed also to be controlled by him. The last, Harry Blew has discovered to be a landsman, with no sea-experience whatever; when found out, excusing himself on the plea that he wished to work his passage to Panama. The position of the other seven is understood by what Striker said. All are equal in the scheme of pillage and murder—though not to have equal reward.

Bringing them one after another before his mind; recalling his experience of them—which, though short, has given him some knowledge of their character—the Condor's first officer cannot think of one likely to take sides with him. They are all men of iniquity; and in defending the innocent he will have to stand alone. For it will amount to almost that, with no other help than Captain Lantanas, Don Gregorio, and the cook; the first, a slight slender man, with just strength enough to handle a telescope; the second, aged, and something of an invalid; the third, for fighting purposes, scarce worth thinking of. His fidelity might be depended upon; but he is also an oldish man, and would count for little in a conflict, with such desperadoes as those who design making themselves masters of the ship.

All these points present themselves to the mind of the first mate clearly, impressively.

A thought of telling Captain Lantanas what he has discovered, and which at first naturally occurred to him, he no longer entertains. The trusting Chilian skipper would scarce give credit to such an atrocious scheme. And if he did, in all likelihood it would result in his taking some rash step, which would but quicken their action, and bring sooner on the fatal catastrophe.

No; 'twill never do to make him acquainted with the danger, great as it is.

Nor yet should Don Gregorio know of it. The terrible secret must be kept from both, and carefully. Either of them aware of it, and in an hour after, all might be over—the tragedy enacted, and its victims consigned to the sea—himself, Harry Blew, being one of them!

Still crouching under the sail, he trembles, as in fancy he conjures up a fearful scene; vividly, as though the reality were before his eyes. In the midst of the open ocean, or close to land, the tragedy to be enacted will be all the same. The girls seized; the captain, Don Gregorio, the cook, and himself, shot down, or poniarded; after that, the gold dragged out of the lockers; the vessel scuttled, and sunk; a boat alone left to carry the pirates ashore, with their spoils and captives!

Contemplating such a scene—even though only in imagination—it is not strange that the Condor's first officer feels a shivering throughout his frame. He feels it in every fibre. And reflection fails to give relief; since it suggests to him no plan for saving himself. On the contrary, the more he dwells on it, the more is he sensible of the danger—sees it in all its stark-naked reality. Against such odds a conflict would be hopeless. It could only end in death to all who have been singled out, himself perhaps the first.