‘Don José,’ I replied, ‘you have saved my life. It is now in your hands again. I am a rough, untutored mariner, not skilled in your courtly ironical phrase,—I say again, you must leave this house, or I will drive you from it—you may return with officers and alguazils, but at any rate, you will not return in the character which now you falsely pretend to.’ ‘My good man,’ said Don José, still playing with his sword-knot, and, as he spoke, flinging himself on a sofa, and dangling his legs gracefully—‘My good man, have you ever, in the course of your buccaneering, come across a cut on the forehead from a well wielded piece of steel? Because if so, at certain seasons, the brain may still feel the smart. You ought to purge and bleed—my good pirate,—purge and bleed.’ I was likely to lose my senses in reality at this cool effrontery, and so, going up close to the Spanish nobleman, I said— ‘Remember, Don Ottavio y St. Jago, who is known to every duenna at the Court of Madrid—remember, your mutual bargain, and the message which you sent your friend by the mouth of Señor Davosa, a merchant, who has doubtless by this time sailed for Old Spain, on board of the galleon.’ Don José started to his feet, as though a cannon-shot had been fired close to his ear. His tawny features were flushed with a sudden redness, and as he jumped up erect upon the floor, he drew his rapier, as though an armed enemy had leaped suddenly upon him. As for me, I thought it just as well to be run through where I stood, as to be dragged again to prison—again tortured and finally hanged. So I remained motionless, gazing upon him. He paused for a moment, with his arm upraised, as though to strike, and then suddenly lowering his weapon, he said—‘Have you nought wherewith to defend yourself?’ I replied, that I was unarmed, as he saw, but that I was not afraid of dying, that he had already given me life, and that now he might himself revoke his gift. He seemed to pause again, to take inward counsel. His face, from being flushed, grew suddenly pale, and his features worked, and his lips quivered. At last he spoke— ‘Eavesdropper!’ he cried, ‘you were lurking in your boat, beneath the cabin galleries of the galleon.’ I answered, composedly, that I was no eavesdropper, but an adventurer who sought, as is common in war-time, to obtain information as to the designs of his enemy. He laughed scornfully, and then turning on his heel, sheathed his rapier with a clash. In an instant, however, he swung round again, with his fierce eyes all aflame. ‘Ha!’ he exclaimed, ‘I see it—a rival. By all the gods, a rival! A successful rival! Good!—a jest worth telling. The blood of Old Castile against a tar barrel—and the tar the favoured fluid of the twain.’ As he spoke thus—his hand again clutched the hilt of his rapier, but he withdrew it, with a loud angry ‘Pshaw!’—and strode, fuming, up and down the room. Then he paused, came close to me, and said—