“If you do, you will get into trouble. The captain will half murder you if he finds it out.” “He is not captain now--we are all equal--all comrades. We are not on ze sheep.” “Take my advice, Francesco, and leave the brandy alone.” Francesco did not reply, but he became more and more bent on his design. He watched the captain, and ascertained where he kept his secret store. Then he watched his opportunity to help himself. It was some time before he had an opportunity to do so unobserved, but at length the chance came. The first draught brought light to his eyes, and made him smack his lips with enjoyment. It was so long since he had tasted the forbidden nectar that he drank again and again. Finally he found himself overcome by his potations, and sank upon the ground in a drunken stupor. He was getting over the effects when, to his ill-luck, the captain returned from his usual solitary ramble. “He has been at my brandy!” Captain Hill said to himself, with flaming eyes. “The fool shall pay dearly for his temerity.” He advanced hastily to the prostrate man, and administered a severe kick, which at once aroused the half-stupefied man. Francesco looked up with alarm, for the captain was a much larger and stronger man than himself. “Pardon, signor captain,” he entreated. “You have been drinking my brandy, you beast,” said Captain Hill, furiously. I draw a veil over the brutal treatment poor Francesco received. When it was over he crawled away, beaten and humiliated, but in his eye there was a dangerous light that boded no good to the captain. Presently Francesco began to absent himself. Where he went no one knew or cared, but he, too, would be away all day. His small, black eyes glowed with smoldering fires of hatred whenever he looked at the captain, but his looks were always furtive, and so for the most part escaped observation. One day Captain Hill stood in contemplation on the edge of a precipitous bluff, looking seaward. His hands were folded, and he looked thoughtful. His back was turned, so he could not, therefore, see a figure stealthily approaching, the face distorted by murderous hate, the hand holding a long, slender knife. Fate was approaching him in the person of a deadly enemy. He did not know that day by day Francesco had dogged his steps, watching for the opportunity which had at last come. So stealthy was the pace, and so silent the approach of the foe, that the captain believed himself wholly alone till he felt a sharp lunge, as the stiletto entered his back between his shoulders. He staggered, but turned suddenly, all his senses now on the alert, and discovered who had assailed him. “Ha! it is you!” he exclaimed wrathfully, seizing the Italian by the throat. “Dog, what would you do?” “Kill you!” hissed the Italian, and with the remnant of his strength he thrust the knife farther into his enemy’s body. The captain turned white, and he staggered, still standing on the brink of the precipice.