"Welcome!" he cried. "Welcome to the last revel! Gentlemen, to-morrow we sail for the Spanish Main; who knows how many of us will ever return? Come, be seated here with me," and he motioned us to seats at his table. There was only one vacant chair left; he noticed my glance at it. "An old friend, detained by important business; he will not be here to-night. I am sure that thou must regret it," and he grinned at me. "It is perhaps best that he did not come," I answered. "The night air possibly would not agree with him;" for I guessed that he referred to Dunraven. He did not answer me, but beat upon his table for silence. The hubbub and noise ceased, and he arose to his feet, goblet in hand. "My men," he said, "we go on a voyage long and perilous; I know not how many will meet with us again. When we return, I leave thee forever; Davis shall take my place, and be thy chief. I shall return to the Old World and dwell in peace. But before we drink to our voyage, I have one toast that I will give thee in honor of our guest, the Englishman. I give thee the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth of England!--may her years be full of glory and happiness!" The men had arisen to their feet, glasses in hand; many of them were Englishmen, and, degraded and besotten as they were, they still felt a love for old England and a pride in the achievements of her Queen, whose name and fame rang around the world. As DeNortier ceased, there arose a shout that made the very candles upon the wall flicker in their sockets; once, twice, thrice it rose and fell, like the deep beat of the surf upon the beach--then it died out. I arose to my feet, cup in hand. "My men," I said, "I thank thee in the name of the Queen for thy courtesy, and would give thee in return--King Philip of Spain!" The Spaniards drank it with a cheer, but it was nothing like the shout that had greeted the name of Elizabeth. Then there were toasts of every sort and kind; the noise at the long tables arose to an uproar as some toast was drank of more than usual interest. I glanced down the tables where the men sat, for we took no part in their merriment, but sat at our own table, quiet and composed. There were the spoils of many a galleon upon the board; goblets and drinking cups of gold and silver; candlesticks and vessels from the monasteries; richly embroidered altar cloths spread the long tables; and the heavy carved chairs of the priests seated the pirates at their revel. Behind the tables the natives, soft-footed and silent, filled the glasses as oft as they were emptied. Without the night, quiet and silent, brooded; within the lights, the laughter, the song--revelry held high carnival. To-morrow they would sail, and who knew how many would return? They would feast to-night; what mattered the morrow, which might hold for them the halter? But to-night--ah, yes!--to-night was theirs, and the night was young yet; fill up again.