"This," said an officer (an aide-de-camp apparently), who stood near, "is Lord Oakhampton, Governor of the Bermudas." His remote kinsman and his father's enemy! Confusion, astonishment, and then something of gratification filled the heart of Derval by turns, and all together. "I am deeply grateful to you, young gentleman, for the great service you have rendered to me; but may I, in turn, ask your name, that I may never forget it?" "My name, like yours, my lord, is Hampton--Derval Hampton." "Are you a Devonshire man?" "Yes, my Lord; my father lives at Finglecombe." Lord Oakhampton coloured, and a cloud came over his decidedly handsome face, as he was well aware who Greville Hampton was, and what his pretensions were; and now, with a little more of hauteur that hospitality in his manner, he said: "Dine with me at Government House to-morrow; eight is the hour, and I shall be glad to see you then." Derval muttered his thanks, and lifted his cap, but ere he retired Lord Oakhampton shook his hand, Clara gave him hers confidently and pleasantly, and the interview terminated, for the night had fallen and Derval had to make his way back to the ship. The episode in all its details gave him much food for thought, as he proceeded slowly homeward. He knew not, till then, that Lord Oakhampton was in the Colonial Service at all; neither did he know that by extravagance the peer had found the salary of Governor of the "vexed Bermoothes," some thousands per annum, a comfortable addition to a shattered income, while his estates were at dry-nurse. Derval knew now, however, that he had done an act demanding a supreme amount of gratitude, from a proud and rather repellent man, who would, perhaps, rather have been indebted therefor to any other person in the world, than the son of Greville Hampton; while, on the other hand, Derval had been taught to view his lordship as his hereditary enemy, the usurper of his father's rights, though why, or how, Derval could not define; and that, more than all, in the days of his father's unexpected penury and obscurity at Finglecombe, he had sedulously withheld all countenance and assistance from him. "By Jove!" thought he; "sharks, sea-lawyers, the sailor's natural foes, seem to be my friends! One gets me promotion, _vice_ poor Paul Bitts, and I have the honour of saving a peer's daughter from another--my little kinswoman, too. I wonder in what degree she is so--a charming little creature, too!" His father seemed of late to have taken but little interest in his movements or his success; but perhaps this startling episode might kindle some emotion of revengeful triumph that great good had been rendered for evil done.