They walked down the street that runs from north to south on the western side of Port-of-Spain, and soon reached the principal landing-place, where the crew of the Black Schooner were impatiently waiting for their captain.
“Feliciana, I bid you a long, long adieu,” said Appadocca, as they stopped under one of the almond trees that form the shady walk we have already mentioned.
“Do not say so,” said Feliciana indistinctly, as she leaned against the tree, “oh do not say so.”
There was no answer, not a word.
“Feliciana let me ask you—to—to—place this near your heart, and whenever you gaze upon it, let one thought return—to—to—the—the sick man of your father’s house.” So saying, Appadocca drew his sword and cut off a lock of his flowing hair, and presented it to the lady.
“Look—look—there,” she cried faintly, as she received the token.
Appadocca turned round and beheld a crowd of people who, with torches and lanterns, were following a company of soldiers that were marching quickly down the walk.
“Flee,” cried Feliciana.
“One more request,” said Appadocca. “Forget not, Feliciana, the place where you first saw me to-night. If foul and rank weeds grow upon it, pluck them as you pass by. Farewell, farewell.”