“Que es ese?” the Spaniards simultaneously cried, and each drew his knife.
“Lorenzo,” exclaimed Appadocca, with more warmth than his cynicism could justify, and, in a moment, that officer—for it was he—was affectionately shaking his chief by the hand: they were both much affected.
How sweet it is when loving relatives have died away, one by one, when lover has been inconstant, and has shot the arrow—coldness—through the loving heart; when the ingratitude of professed friends has frozen the limpid currents of our feelings, when the world has heaped upon us miseries on miseries, and then has cast us forth; when father shews the front of enmity to filial deservedness, when we are isolated in ourselves in this great world of numbers of movements and of alacrity; how sweet it is to meet, after separation, the friend whose heart-strings throb in sympathy with ours, and about whose head the shadows of suspicion could never play.
At the sound of the captain’s well-known voice, a loud and prolonged cheer from the men in the boat, echoed in the silence of the night far and wide over the gulf, and was repeated long and loudly by the ringing dales on the shore.
“Thanks, thanks,” exclaimed Lorenzo, in his joy, “to the chance that sent us after this vessel.”
“Where is the schooner?” inquired Appadocca.
“Behind that promontory, that you barely see: she is there safely hidden.”
“Then take the helm,” said Appadocca, “and steer to her.”
Lorenzo attempted to take the tiller out of the hands of the captain, but met with strong resistance.