“What do you say?” he asked, in a threatening tone. “I say you are wrong,” answered Fabian quietly. “Undoubtedly,” retorted Drake, “because you bet on Wilmore.” “I was for O’Kelly, like yourself; I lost, and I have paid.” “Sir,” cried Drake, “do you pretend to teach me?—” But he did not finish his sentence, for Captain Corsican had interposed between him and Fabian, with the intention of taking up the quarrel. He treated Drake with supreme contempt, but evidently Drake would not pick a quarrel with him; so when Corsican had finished, he crossed his arms, and addressing himself to Fabian,— “This gentleman,” said he, with an evil smile, “this gentleman wants some one to fight his battles for him.” Fabian grew pale, he would have sprung at Drake, but I held him back, and the scoundrel’s companions dragged him away; not, however, before he had cast a look of hatred at his enemy. Captain Corsican and I went below with Fabian, who contented himself by saying, “The first opportunity I have, I will box that impudent fellow’s ears.” [Illustration: HE TREATED DRAKE WITH SUPREME CONTEMPT.] CHAPTER XXII. From Thursday night to Saturday the “Great Eastern” was crossing the Gulf Stream, the water of which is of a dark colour, the surface of the current forcing its way against the waters of the Atlantic, is even slightly convex. It is, in fact, a river running between two liquid shores, and one of the largest in the world, for it reduces the Amazon and Mississippi to mere brooks in comparison. This day, the 5th of April, began with a magnificent sunrise, the waves glittered, and a warm south-west wind was wafted through the rigging. It was the beginning of the fine weather; the sun, which had clothed the fields of the continent with verdure, caused fresh costumes to bloom on board. Vegetation is sometimes behind-hand, but fashion never. Soon the Boulevards, filled with groups of promenaders, looked like the Champs Elysées on a fine Sunday afternoon in May. I did not see Captain Corsican once that morning; wishing to hear of Fabian, I went to his cabin, and knocked at the door, but getting no answer I opened it and went in. Fabian was not there. I went on deck again, but could find neither my friends nor the Doctor; the idea then crossed my mind to find out where the unfortunate Ellen was confined. What cabin did she occupy? Where had Drake shut her up? In whose care was the poor creature left, when Drake abandoned her for whole days? Most likely with some disinterested stewardess, or an indifferent nurse. I wished to know how it was, not from any vain motive of curiosity, but simply in Ellen and Fabian’s interest, if it was only to prevent a meeting, always to be dreaded.