"Well may you wonder that I survive," said he, the blood suffusing his temples when our eyes met: but he was compelled to turn away; the whip of the boatswain at that moment descended on his shoulders, and I returned to the poop. My heart bled for the unmerited misery and degradation of the poor old man: but to converse with him was quite contrary to etiquette and orders. On questioning Guevarra concerning him— "I trust, signor," said he, "you will excuse me; but it is impossible for a captain of his Majesty’s galleys to know the biography of every rogue who tugs at the benches." He coloured with manifest confusion. "A droll fellow that hunchback who pulls the bow-oar." "Ah!" replied Guevarra, "a perfect imp of Etna: I am very much indebted to my good friend, the Visconte Santugo, for sending him off to me yesterday. He was caught lurking near the villa D’Alfieri by the soldiers who guard it. Per baccho! I was half frightened when I saw him on board—ha, ha! he has all the aspect of a stunted Cyclope, and works so well that he has a fair prospect of being promoted to the rank of task-master. He laughs, chuckles, and sings incessantly; but for what reason is beyond my comprehension, as there is nothing here but hard work, heavy blows, and scanty provender—unless we except the honour of serving in his Majesty’s galley _Sea-horse_. Diavolo!" he cried, rushing to the other side of the poop, "the Maltese schooner has passed us. Pull rascals—give way ye lubberly Padri—give way fore and aft! Shall the gallant Cavallo Marino, the flower of our galleys, and the peculiar care of our thrice blessed Madonna, be beaten by a d——d scampavia?" He bowed and crossed himself with great devotion before a little gilt figure of the Virgin, which occupied a niche in the centre of a row of brightly painted buckets, ranged along the top of the poop. But Madonna was sued in vain. Again the whistling rattans were flourished on all sides: even Gaspare Truffi did not escape, and his elfish yell sounded shrill as the whistle of a steam-engine when the blows descended on his naked hump. On—on shot the scampavia, and the lofty galley toiled after her in vain: the former carried a press of canvass sufficient to run her under the water, which flashed like blue fire before her sharp prow: and she shipped sea after sea, as we rounded the Capo del Armi, and the snow-clad summit of Etna sank beneath the dim horizon astern: the water was getting rough, the breeze increasing, and it was evident that she must take in sail or be capsized. A half-smothered cheer arose from her crew, who crowded her side, as they saw us rapidly dropping astern.