Fitz passed his time nearly always on deck with the skipper's glass in hand, every now and then close enough in to one of the islands to excite an intense longing to land, partly to end his imprisonment, as he called it, partly from sheer desire to plunge into one or another of the glorious valleys which ran upward from the sea, cut deep into the side of some volcanic mountain. "Lovely!" was always on the boy's lips. "I never saw anything like this before, Poole. But where's the port we are sailing for? Are we never going to land?" "Oh, it's only a little farther on," was the reply. "If this wind only gets up a little more towards sundown I expect we shall soon be there." "That's what you always keep saying," was the impatient retort. "Yes," said Poole coolly; "but it isn't my fault. It's the wind." "Oh, hang the wind!" "You should say, blow it!" said Poole, laughing. "But I say, old chap, I don't want to damp you, but you really had better not indulge in any hope of seeing any consul or English people who will help you to get away. San Cristobal is a very solitary place, where the people are all mongrels, a mixture of native Indians and half-bred Spaniards. Father says they are like the volcano at the back of the city, for when it is not blowing up, they are." "Well, I shall learn all that for myself," said Fitz coldly. "You will, old fellow, and before long too." "What do you mean by that?" said Fitz sharply. "Only that we shall be there for certain to-night." As it happened, the wind freshened a little that evening, while the sunset that Poole had prophesied was glorious in the extreme; a wondrous pile of massive clouds formed up from the horizon almost to the zenith, shutting out the sun, and Fitz watched the resplendent hues until his eyes were ready to ache--purple, scarlet, orange and gold, with flashes in between of the most vivid metallic blue, ever increasing, ever changing, until the eye could bear no more and sought for rest in the sea through which they sailed, a sea that resembled liquid rubies or so much wine. But the end was coming fast, and like some transformation scene, the clouds were slowly drawn aside, the vivid tints began to pale till they died away into a rich, soft, purple gloom spangled with drops of gold. And a deep sigh escaped from the middy's breast as he stood wondering over the glories of the rapid change from glowing day into the soft, transparent, tropic night. "I never saw anything like that before," sighed the boy. "No, I suppose not," was the reply. "It was almost worth coming all this way to see. Doesn't it seem queer to you where all the clouds are gone?" "Yes," said Fitz; "I was thinking about that. There is only one left, now, over yonder, with the sun glowing on it still." "That's not the sun," said Poole quietly. "Yes, it is. I mean there, that soft dull red. Look before it dies out."