Jack Jimmy sobbed aloud, as he the more tightly clasped the knees of the captain. The latter looked down calmly and coolly on the little man, seemed to recognize him, but said not a word to him.
Pained by the apparent forgetfulness of his young master, he raised his head, and, looking imploringly up to the captain Jack Jimmy cried out, piteously:
“You no know me—you no know me, massa—you no know Jack Jimmy—you no ’member Jack Jimmy in de mule-pen—you—”
“Yes, I do recollect you, Jack Jimmy,” interrupted the captain, “but you must neither make such a noise here, nor continue where you are.” He made a sign with his hand, and two men stepped forward and led away the affectionate Jack Jimmy.
“Ah! my young massa,” continued the affectionate negro as he was taken away, “ee bin da gie me cake—he bin da gie me grog—an when dey bin want foo beat me ee bin da beg foo me.”
When Jack Jimmy had been led away behind the assembled crew, and had been prevailed upon to become silent, which change did not take place in him until he had been threatened to be again rocked in the sail, the priest and the young lady were, in their turn, led forth. The former, although it was perceptible that he anticipated the gloomiest results, still had a resigned and serene air. He looked calmly on all that had taken place that day, and, perhaps, there might be read in his eyes a certain expression of surprise, that the pirates did not at once act with that blood-thirsty ruffianism which he had been accustomed, from his earliest schoolboy readings, to attach to men of that abandoned life.
The young lady was, naturally, much more affected by the circumstances of her situation; kindness, however, had not been spared to reconcile her to it as much as possible.
Lorenzo had been strictly enjoined to show all marks of attention to her; and he seemed not to have required the positive command of his chief to do so: for she had at her command the chivalrous devotedness, which great beauty always draws from even the most stoical of men. She was exceedingly beautiful; such a species of beauty that we meet only in the tropics,—a beauty which we can compare to no known standard: something that belongs entirely to the warm clime by which it is produced; something that is more of the fanciful than of the real. She was of a middle age, slender, and of a perfect figure; her features were delicately and nicely chiselled; her complexion was of the clearest white, tinged with the slightest olive; her dark brown hair hung over a high and nicely moulded forehead, while her dark gazelle-like eyes imparted to her face a character of tenderness and softness.