"True, señor. If not killed, you would be sent to the galleys at Barcelona, and so might as well have taken a dip in the Rio de Muerte. Well, I will cease to urge you. Here is the gate of Bonanza, which may be termed the port of Seville, though the city is fifteen leagues distant; yonder is its castle, with the Spanish flag flying, and here is the quay, where all large vessels laden with goods discharge their cargoes, as the shallowness of the Guadalquiver will not permit them to ascend higher—you understand, señores?"
Here at this small town we bade farewell to Pedro, who promised to visit us as soon as he came round to Gibraltar; and pushing on, after a trot of a mile or two over a dreary and sandy waste, we found ourselves amid the sunny and bustling streets of San Lucar de Barameda, where we sought at once its harbour, the quays of which were, as usual, piled chin deep with boxes of oranges, of raisins, and of prunes, casks of salt, of wine, and of brandy; while the flags of all nations—the stars and stripes of North America, the eagles and tricolours of the South, the union jack and the crosses of Scandinavia—were waving among a forest of masts; in short, we found ourselves amid all the noise and lively stir of a Spanish seaport, where the splash of the screw propeller furrowed the waters of the Guadalquiver, and the steam, as it escaped at times, was like music to us, who had just eluded the fangs of Fabrique's mountain wolves.
We soon found the boat for Gibraltar, "Neustra Señora de Assistencia," and embarked ourselves and our horses, which were taken on board in stalls, that were slung from a whip at the yard-arm; and in an hour after, muffled in our cloaks, with choice cubas to solace us, we lounged on the paddle gangway as the vessel steamed out of the harbour between the two castles of San Lucar—the same fortresses which saluted the little fleet of Columbus, when departing in search of a western world—and passed the roadstead and the dangerous entrance, where the wild waves are ever beating in tumult; and thus we left the port enveloped in a golden haze and diminishing astern, as the sun set behind the mountain peaks of Seville.
The bay of Cadiz soon opened on our larboard bow, and the city itself, with all its lights and spires, and then the Isla de Leon arose before us, white and glimmering in the moonlight.
The silver waves seemed to toy with the golden sand, as their coy riplets chafed the beach; but in other places the moonlit sea dashed its spray like showers of diamonds and prisms against the abutting rocks.
Overhead, the dark blue sky was clear and cloudless, save where a long black pennon of wavy smoke streamed far astern from the glowing funnel of "Our Lady of Assistance," and all was still save the ceaseless and monotonous dashing of the paddle-wheels, and the measured clank of the engines, as we ploughed along the lovely Spanish shore, and towards midnight saw that point of land on which no Briton can gaze without an emotion of pride, the Cape of Trafalgar.
CHAPTER XV.
THE CIRCASSIAN CAPTAIN.
On board the steamer our attention had been repeatedly attracted, and our interest—mine, at least—excited by a fellow-passenger, whose manner, costume, and bearing were too remarkable to escape notice.
His figure was tall and handsomely formed; his features, pale and like marble, were cast in the most pure and severe model of classic beauty; his nose was long and straight; his black eye-brows nearly met over it in one unbroken line; a fierce mustache stuck out on each side, giving great expression to a mouth, the lips of which were generally compressed, and in expression stern.