The poor boy, on his knees, pale as death, the tears running down his cheeks, exclaimed, “O, don’t kill me, sir! I’m only a poor, friendless little boy, and haven’t done any wrong. I ain’t to blame for what the others did; truly, sir, I’m not a bad boy.” “If you are an honest boy, how came you in the company of such villains?” “Indeed, sir, I didn’t know what kind of men they were till I got on board; I’ve been ever since trying to get away, and can’t.” “Why didn’t you run away?” “They watch me too closely; and when they can’t watch me, they tie or lock me up, and tell me if they catch me trying to run away they will shoot me.” “Let me talk to him, Ben,” said Sally; “you frighten him; don’t you see how he quivers every time you speak?” “What is your name, my boy?” “Charles Bell, marm.” “Where do you belong?” “In England.” “Are your parents there?” “No, marm; they are dead. I have no kindred in this country, nor any friends.” “Well,” replied Ben, whose passion was rapidly cooling, “I shall let you off; but I advise you next time to look out how you get into bad company. Come, Sally, let’s go to the house and clear these ruffians out.” When they returned to the house, they found it presenting the appearance of a butcher’s shambles, although none of the occupants were dead, as Sally had supposed. The leader still lay insensible on the hearth; and the blood had run from him the whole length of the room. The one Ben had flung against the wall lay on the bed, the sheets and pillows of which were soaked in blood that issued from his nose and mouth. The one he threw into the fireplace still lay on his back across the andirons, with his head in the ashes, for Ben told them, if one of them moved, when he came back he’d make an end of them. “Here, boy,” said Ben, giving him the key of the cuddy, “go and let those fellows loose, and tell them to come up here and take away their comrades, and bear a hand about it, too, or I shall be after them.” The men came, pale and trembling, bringing with them a hand-barrow, such as is used by fishermen to carry fish. On this they laid the captain, and carried him on board. The others were able, with assistance, to stagger along. Sally wanted to wash the captain’s face, and pour some spirit down his throat, to bring him to; but Ben would not allow her, saying, “He is not fit for a decent woman to touch; and if he dies there’ll be one villain less in the world.” “But he’s not fit to die, Ben.” “That’s his lookout,” was the stern reply; “away with him.” The boy still lingered, though he eyed Ben with evident distrust, and shrunk himself together every time he spoke. But as soon as the men were all out of the house, Ben assumed an entirely different appearance; his voice lost its stern tone, the flush faded from his face, his muscles relaxed, and he asked the trembling boy to sit down, as it would be some time before the vessel would float that he came in.