“Antony More!” repeated Malcolm to himself, as he walked up to the stranger, and confronted—Antonio Morio, the soi-disant seneschal of the Princess Pezzilini!
“Self-preservation is the first law of nature. What have you to say why I should not forthwith pitch you into the sea, Signor Antonio?” inquired Malcolm, sternly.
“This, Mr. Montrose!—that, so help me Heaven, I will not betray you, nor that sweet young lady in the cabin,” answered the man, not in broken English, but in such good vernacular that it might have been his mother tongue.
“Why are you here?”
“That is my secret! Torture should not wring it from me. Pitch me into the sea if you like, Mr. Montrose! I’d quite as lief, you would! I shall say no more.”
Full of thought, Malcolm walked away from this man, whom he observed was as pale as death, and looked as if recently recovered from some nearly fatal illness.
“The wind is rising,” said the captain; “I fear we shall have a gale.”
Malcolm hoped not, and went below to carry such refreshments as the vessel afforded to Eudora. After she had partaken of them, she expressed a wish to go up on deck, and Malcolm assisted her to ascend.
“Oh, dear friend! if you could conceive the rapture of moving in wide space, breathing free air, and looking upon the boundless sea and sky once more!” exclaimed Eudora, sinking upon the couch of rugs and cushions that Malcolm had prepared for her upon the deck.
He sat down at her feet, and began to tell her of their destination, and that immediately upon their arrival it would be necessary for them to be united in marriage, and that then they would sail for America, and commence life together.