“And, Pedillo”––here the pirate’s voice dropped to a whisper––“come back after the vessel is secured, and bring that Maltese fellow without a nose with you. It will be as well, perhaps, for you to provide yourself with a few fathoms of raw-hide strips, as we may have occasion to use it. Quien sabe?”
Señor Pedillo’s black wiry beard fairly bristled as he grinned understandingly at his superior; and, getting into a bit of a canoe at the jetty, he paddled off to the brigantine to execute his orders.
Meanwhile Captain Brand slowly bent his steps toward the house under the crag, and entered his spacious saloon for the last time. On the bare table, too, was his last dinner, served on a few odd dishes and cracked plates.
“Babette, old girl!” said he, as he sat down to this repast, “you have a bottle of good Madeira, and a flask of Hock left? No?”
The negress shook her head violently, made the sign of the cross, and by other telegraphic motions gave her master to understand that Padre Ricardo had dropped in, drained both bottles, and then had reeled off on board the brigantine.
“The drunken selfish beast!” muttered Captain Brand; “it will be the last taste of wine he will swallow for a long time.”
The pirate was quite correct in his schemes for the padre’s reform, for the next copious draught the holy father imbibed was the briny salt water from the Caribbean Sea.
“Well, my Baba, a drop of water, then! Thank you, old lady. Here’s to your health while I am gone. There––you need not blubber so over my hand––good-by!” And so passed away from Captain Brand’s sight the only creature in the wide world who loved him.