“There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.
Oh, ho! oh, ho! The cock doth crow,
It is time for the fisher to rise and go.
Fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine!
He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line;
Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south,
The pirate will carry my hook in his mouth.”

In the pause which followed the dreadful episode just recounted by Captain Brand, the padre was occupied in pattering a prayer, counting his beads, and elevating his crucifix as if he was mumbling high mass at the altar. Don Ignaçio slowly waved his brown fore finger, and his single spark of glowing eye glared fiercely and fixedly at his host. A clammy sweat burst out on the pallid brow of the doctor, and his hands were clutched before him on the table like the jaws of a steel vice. And still the drunken shrieks and cheers of the piratical crew at the sheds arose wild and shrill in the calm night, making a gloomy echo for the banquet. The doctor was the first to break the awkward silence which pervaded the saloon.

“Capitano!” said he, in his habitual calm, deep voice, “with respect to what you said in the early part of the evening, of breaking up this establishment, what, may I ask, are your plans for the future?”

“Gracias! amigo doctor! Thank you, my friend, for changing the conversation. My plans! eh! ah! Well, they are these––”

Here Captain Brand’s face assumed its usual expression; and entirely himself again, he went on to state, in a precise, business-like way, the views he had resolved upon for future action.

“––To-morrow, gentlemen, is Sunday. Those boisterous fellows out there, after mass, will need rest all the day. On Monday, however, I shall begin to change the rig of the schooner, fill up with provisions for a long cruise, take on board all the loose odds and ends we have stowed here, of course,” he added, as he remarked an inquiring and a rather alarmed mercenary look from the Tuerto’s glim––“of course, after having squared up all claims of our compadre there!”

“Hum!” croaked that sharp rascal, with a nod of satisfaction quite like an old raven.

“Then, señores, I shall burn or destroy the old sheds, and bury the 120 cannon and heavy articles we can not find room for in the ‘Centipede;’ when, if nothing happens, we shall trip anchor and spread our sails for sea!

“Babette! Babette! Really I believe that dear old negress has fallen asleep. Babette! ah! there you are, my beauty! See if you can’t give us a bowl of okra gumbo before we break up here!”

Babette had not been asleep. Oh no! She had her ear to the door of the saloon, and was listening to the sad history of Doña Lucia, and when her master came to the final scene the old woman fell on her knees and shivered all over, where she remained until the sound of the captain’s voice again called her to her duties.