“’Pshaw!” answered our scapegrace, throwing his weapon overboard. “What a stir about a trifle, Señor mine. Better do this than hang.” So Don Hilo de Ladron, when the island of Tercera lay close under the bows of the fleet, sat in the hold with irons around his ankles, and there probably would have remained, in obscurity, until the vessel returned to France, had not his fast friend, the captain, contrived to say a word or two to Commander De Chaste in person, while that brave knight was reviewing his forces on shipboard preparatory to landing. “Who are you?” asked the commander, looking from a bit of paper he now twisted between his fingers to the bearer. “I have seen your face before.” “Your excellency must be mistaken,” returned the unblushing Wolfang, who nevertheless remembered perfectly the gold piece the knight once put in the mouth of a holy war soldier without arms or feet, if appearances were true. “Well,” interrupted De Chaste, “this scrawl tells me your friend was not materially to blame in the affair, his honor being concerned in repelling the charges.” “True to a letter,” replied Wolfang, bowing low, as usual, to hide his unprepossessing grin. “Besides, the officer on duty owed the poor young gentleman a grudge.” “That has nothing to do with it, sir. A man’s honor is his best possession, and needs unsleeping guardianship; but this taking its vindication into his own hands, must not be allowed in the service. However, the error is one on the side of right, and let him behave well in the field and we will pass over his indiscretion. We want every brave man we can get,” he added, turning to one of his officers. “But, M. de Commandant,” objected the gentleman addressed, “is it likely a renegade like this fellow should prove a good soldier, or even be really possessed of ordinary honor!” “How!” cried De Chaste, quickly. “I did not think the ranks of our little army contained any such. Is he a Spaniard, M. de Haye?” “Yes, and guilty of every manner of crime.” “Ha! Well, he must remain as he is until we find time to look into his case. How is it, Mr. What’s-your-name, Carlo, you suppressed his place of birth?” “His mother was a French lady, Monseigneur, and fighting for one’s mother country is as good, any day, as fighting for a father’s.” “True, in a measure, sir,” returned the knight. “What’s the prisoner’s name?”