And in this manner Roderic Owen once again found himself on Spanish soil—two years had passed since in anger he had kicked the dust of Porto Rico from his shoes, and registered a solemn vow never to tread its shores again while his good sense remained.
This occurred to him now as a very grim joke, for here he was once more landed on that same fated soil; and what was even more singular as fully bent as ever upon his chase after beauty.
Time alters many cases, resolutions fade with age, and circumstances govern our actions to a remarkable degree.
Of course it was absolutely necessary that the second officer and his men should return to the yacht without delay.
Roderic squeezed the bold fellows by the hand and watched them launch their boat through the surf.
Twice they were driven back.
It was a ticklish job.
Such men could not be daunted by difficulties, even when out of the common, so they made a still more resolute attempt.
The third trial was a grand success—sturdy British muscle had conquered over the forces of Nature, and Roderic knew they were off.