"Yes, senor—dyed, tattooed redly on the skin, with the juice of a plant that grows on the warm slopes of the volcano at Orizaba. See," added Pedro, as he drew back his blue shirt, and displayed his brawny shoulder, on which there was distinctly traced a cross like that of St. James. "Our poor mother punctured that mark on each of her little boys, in the hope that Santiago would take us under his protection; but, alas! from infancy we were the peculiar care of the infernal spirit."
With all the impulsiveness of his race, Pedro behaved at times in a very frantic manner, and these paroxysms induced a subsequent weakness and lethargy, that seemed the precursor of dissolution; but he was a man of a powerful frame, and the instinct of life was strong within him. He expressed great satisfaction, almost joy, to learn that Mr. Basset had survived the outrage contemplated by him and the mutineers; and thus, that, thanks to Dr. Heriot's skill, he had one sin less to atone for.
Then he entreated that Ethel would come, that he might implore her pardon. This the poor creature sought in terms so touching that Ethel was deeply moved, and ventured to speak with him in terms of consolation.
But there was ever the same reply from Pedro—there was no priest on board, and he was beyond being consoled. So Ethel proved his only soother, and read to him at times from the Bible—her mother's Bible—the same that had fallen from her unconscious hand on the night when Pedro so daringly carried her off; and a striking little group they formed—the black-haired and black-bearded Spanish ruffian, his tawny visage, already pale and pinched by the touch of death, pressing to his lips the red cross of Santiago again and again, while striving to follow her words and understand them, as they fell softly and distinctly from the lips of that fair-skinned and delicate English girl, who sat by the side of his bed, in the squalid and noisome forecastle, with the half dim daylight struggling through the square scuttle above, and, perhaps, Morley, with his loving smile, or Tom Bartelot, with his sun-burned face, listening near.
Sometimes, in Pedro's paroxysms, his voice rose almost to a shriek.
"Oh! senora," he would exclaim to poor shrinking Ethel, "pray for me—pray for me. You are good—you are kind—you are pure—while I—I—what am I? Heaven will hear you when Heaven will not hear me!"
"Oh, do not speak thus," implored Ethel.
"I must, senora—I dare not pray for myself. To me the ear of God will be deaf, or turn from me."
"Oh! Pedro, why?"
"I have been so wicked, so bad! I have committed many sins, and one most awful deed, for which I cannot hope for pardon from Him whom I outraged, and whose altar I desecrated—never, oh never!"