The secretary bowed in acquiescence, and the count rising, led the way into the after-cabin. It was fit for the boudoir of a queen. A carpet of the richest Persian dyes and softest texture was under foot. Except in front, the whole apartment was lined with fawn-colored tapestries; the windows framed into the after ports had party-colored curtains of fawn and cherry colors. An ottoman and several chairs were covered with embroidered damask corresponding to the tapestry; a small, richly-carved book-case was filled with handsomely bound books. There was a pair of globes upon stands, and a harp, a guitar, mirrors and candelabra, with a few small but exquisite paintings completed the equipment of this cell of a Sybarite. With disheveled hair, and eyes inflamed with weeping, in all the abandonment of grief, Miss Gillespie lay with her head upon her brother’s breast, who, as the door was opened, threw his arms around, as if more perfectly to protect her. With a courteous air, and all the finished breeding of an artificial gentleman, the count advanced and paid his respects through the medium of the interpreter. “Had she sustained no injury from the accident of the night before? Had she recovered from her alarm? Had she slept well? Could he do any thing for her?” The three first questions she answered in monosyllables. At the fourth, she made an effort to speak, but maiden bashfulness overcame her, and she looked imploringly to her brother. The youth construed her feelings rightly, and said, “We wish, sir, to see our friend, Mr. Talbot, who was, with us, a passenger in the schooner.” “At present it cannot be,” answered the count, “but when we reach Havana, he will doubtless prove his character, and then you can be again united, but,” addressing her, “so much beauty should not be marred by untimely grief. A few days more and your friend will be restored to liberty. Here I cannot make any distinction between him and the other prisoners. Let me therefore entreat you, Miss, to dry up your tears, and let a smile once more wreath itself upon your lovely cheek.” “Say to him,” asked Miss G., of the interpreter, “that I am in deep affliction. Yesterday I lost my father, and now, when I am most helpless, I am by his act,” (she looked toward the count) “separated from the friend whom that father had chosen as my protector through life. I am therefore in no mood to listen to compliments, which would be ill-timed from any one, most of all from him.” The count stifled his vexation and said, “I beg pardon for this intrusion. I will await a more seasonable time to express my sympathy and make a proffer of my services;” so saying, he withdrew, desiring Gonzalez to remain and gather the particulars of their history.