"What is it?" he asked. "Why dost thou detain me here?" "I have told thee once," he answered; "it is not necessary to repeat it." "Granting that," I said; "in case of my refusal, what dost thou intend to do with me?" "I shall take thee with me to my rendezvous; shall keep thee until thou dost change thy mind. If thou wilt not join us after a reasonable time--why, dead men tell no tales." And as he said this, his black eyes narrowed to a mere slit. He gazed at me a moment, then, turning his back, walked to where the pirates, whose boat had arrived, were scrambling aboard the vessel. I was about to follow him, when my attention was attracted to two seamen who came up the companionway, bearing between them a man. They came forward to where I stood alone, and as they neared, I looked at the burden in their arms. It was not--could not be? Yes, it was the gentleman to whose rescue I had come on the street of London, and to whom I owed my present situation. The confinement had told on him, great hollows were under his eyes, his cheeks were wan and thin; no wonder I looked at him twice before I knew him. The seamen brought him forward to where I stood, and there deposited him, as though he were a bundle of goods. I believe he did not know me when he raised his eyes blankly to my face, but as he looked at me a moment, the light of recognition crept into them, and he held out his hand in greeting, with a smile. "Pardon me, that I did not at first know thee, but thou must remember that I only saw thee a moment in the moonlight, when we were both engaged, and this cursed imprisonment has so worked upon me, that I hardly believe I would know my own mother, could I see her." I laughed at the energy with which he spoke, and after grasping his proffered hand, sat down beside him. "Dame Fortune has played us a scurvy trick," I said, "but perhaps the wheel may turn. I am Thomas Winchester, Kt., of London. Pray, whom have I the honor of addressing?" He bowed. "I well know Sir Thomas Winchester by reputation, and am glad to know in person so redoubtable a gentleman," he answered. "Thou wert in Ireland some years ago with Sir Philip Sidney. Permit me to introduce Captain Henry Steele, at thy service." Steele? Steele? Where had I heard that name before? Ah, yes, it all came back to me. I remembered Philip Sidney's recounting, at the old Mermaid Inn, over a pipe of the fragrant Virginia tobacco, the tale of how this man Steele had swam across a river in the Low Country, during the campaign with Spain, and had traveled ten miles through a country swarming with the enemy, where capture meant certain death, to carry dispatches to a besieged fortress. I remembered the crowded room; the cloud of blue tobacco smoke, through which peered the eager, interested faces of the listeners; remembered the applause which the tale evoked; and Francis Drake's "By God! 'twas a gallant deed, sir."