“Can one who owes, senora, a large amount of gratitude,” he at last said, in a mild, subdued tone, “be of any service to her?”
She was still silent.
“Can I do anything to dry these tears?” Appadocca again inquired.
Feliciana suddenly turned her head, and fixed her expressive eyes steadily on the inquirer. She maintained her earnest look for some time, then rising, said, with great excitement,—
“Yes, you can dry these tears. Shun the wicked pursuit in which you are engaged, and then these tears may never again escape to betray me. Nature could never have intended you for a pirate.”
At this sudden action, and unexpected language of Feliciana, Appadocca required all his self-command to conceal the surprise which he felt.
“I a pirate, senora!” he said, “may I ask how it is you have been induced to suppose me one?”
“Put no idle questions,” she quickly replied, “I feel that you have sacrificed yourself to such a life. You, too, have confessed it. Why was it, that in your ravings, you called on your men to board, to cut down, to make prisoners? that you spoke of blood, of booty, and still worse, of revenge; and revenge, too, it would seem, on your own father? Do you think, to persons as I am, in my position, the least word of those—of those—of those—” she contended with herself for the expression, “those whom we wish well, can fail of its meaning. I am a stranger to you: but let me not prevail the less on that account; let me pray and beseech you, in the name of God and the saints,” she continued, clasping her hands, “to promise me to abandon a life that is hateful both to Heaven and earth, and to think no more of those terrible projects of slaughter and revenge, about which you spoke so much in your sleep.”
“Pray, senora, sit down,” said Appadocca, as he rose quickly from his seat to conduct her to hers.