‘Most grateful mariner—most worthy pirate—a goodly return have you made to the man who gave you liberty and life. Why! thou heartless knave! were it not for me, you would long ago have swung a hundred-weight of carrion from a gallows, and now this—this is the gratitude thou showest.’ ‘Yes, Don José,’ I said, vehemently, ‘it is. To save a gentleman from committing a base action, is to make the worthiest recompence for a favour he has conferred.’ The Spaniard looked at me from head to foot, raised his eyebrows, and gave a slight whistle. ‘Truly, a pirate of a most moral breed—he reproves incontinence, he rebukes sin. Most righteous of Buccaneers, thou hast mistaken thy trade. Turn priest, man. Ha! I daresay you heard me tell the story of the diamond and pearls on the Virgin’s petticoat? Behold a career for thee. Get thee to the Cathedral on the Hill. To rob gaping Spaniards in a church is more profitable and more safe than to plunder fighting Spaniards on the sea. Turn priest, man. I warrant thee the rarest hand at the confessional.’ ‘Don José,’ I answered, ‘promise me, on your honour, to give up the wicked purpose with which you visit this house. You may then betray me to my enemies, and I swear to you, that not a word of what accidentally I overheard shall pass my lips.’ He turned impetuously to me. ‘You know me not, mariner,’ he cried, vehemently. ‘Your life is safe for me. We Spaniards are not all of us alguazils!—human bloodhounds! Go! You have crossed my path, and chance has given you the advantage. But you have spoken well and acted well. I do not blame you—I think well of you. Once I would myself have done what you have done; nay, perhaps so would I still. But, caramba! Why put myself in a heat about such a trifle. Win her and wear her, man! The stakes are yours.’ Don José took two or three turns from one end of the apartment to the other, I still remaining motionless where I had first addressed him; then suddenly stopping, he said, ‘If ever in future years you visit Madrid, seek me out, and I will be your friend.’ Just then, the Señora Moranté entered. ‘Don José,’ she said, ‘I have looked everywhere for Joseffa, but——’ Here she observed me, and suddenly became silent. Don José went up to her, and took her hand. ‘Señora,’ he said, ‘you will think me fickle, but I have become convinced, that in Joseffa’s hand, should I be fortunate enough to secure it, I should find no heart. The saints would prosper no such union, señora. What I say I have full warrant for believing. Señora, adieu! Here is your persecuted Scotch mariner. Make much of him—he is a leal man and true. I told you that I thought so, now I know it. Adieu, señora. Adieu, my flower of pirates. May Heaven prosper thee! Be moral—and a Buccaneer!’