A man rose from a high-backed chair by the table, a man of middle age, enfeebled by the West Indian climate. Latent fever had him in its grip; it might be seen in his overbright eyes, and in the intermittent ague that shook him. He wore a long furred gown, and a close cap, and he leaned heavily upon a stick. There was a priest of the Franciscan order beside him, cowled darkly, but the holy man paid no heed to anything but his beads, over which he muttered ceaselessly. The other man went with an infirm step to stand before his daughter, shielding her from curious eyes. "I demand to be taken before your commander!" he said in the Spanish tongue. "I am Don Manuel de Rada y Sylva, late Governor of the island of Santiago." It is doubtful whether much of this was intelligible to the English seamen. A couple advanced into the stateroom and put Don Manuel aside. "Hold off, old greybeard!" William Hick advised him, and put a dirty hand under the lady's chin. "The pretty chuck! Buss me, sweeting!" There came instead the sound of a ringing slap. William Hick started back with a rueful hand clapped to his cheek. "Oh, a shrew!" John Daw caught the lady about her trim waist, clipping one of her arms to her side. The other fighting hand was imprisoned in his huge paw. "Softly, my cosset, softly!" he chuckled, and gave her a hearty kiss. "That's the way to use, lads!" Don Manuel, held between two men, cried out. "Unhand her, fellow! Your commander! I demand to see your commander!" They caught at the last word, and it sobered them a little. "Ay, hail 'em before the General. It's safer." John Daw pushed Hick aside, who was fingering the jewel about the girl's neck. "Let be! Do you want Mad Nick after you? Come lass, on deck with you!" The lady was forced, resisting to the door. She did not know what they were going to do with her, and struggled wildly, throwing herself back against their pulling hands. It did not serve. "The curst wench!" growled Hick, still smarting from the blow she had dealt him. He snatched her up into his arms and bore her up the companion to the poop-deck. There were others gathered there, others who greeted the appearance of this frightened, wrathful lady with amazement and some ribaldry. She was set on her feet, and straightway fell upon Hick like a young wild-cat. She ignored a warning cry from her father, brought under ward on to the deck, and hit out at Hick, stamped with her heel on a large foot, scratched at a bearded face. She was seized and held fast, each wrist in custody of a grinning sailor. One of them chucked her under the chin, and laughed hugely to see her throw up her head. "Little turtle-dove, pretty love-bird!" said John Daw, essaying satire. There were men crowded all about her, wondering, jesting, feasting their eyes. A lip was smacked; there was a knowing wink and a bawdy joke. The lady shrank.