that any man who said I was not a good comrade and a good fellow, should brook the stab. Now, among the company was one man to whom I took a special dislike, because he encouraged Garbo with all his might to defend me, at the same time dropping hints that I stood in need of the utmost eloquence which my protector could exert, and all the time slily laughing in his sleeve at both of us. This man was a squat, broad-shouldered little fellow, with a greasy, threadbare doublet, and a cunning-looking weasen face, lighted up by two bright winking eyes. He never seemed to me to sit a moment in the same position, but was always shifting about and fidgeting, and speaking here and there, to almost every one at once. This man, whom the rest called Señor Peralta, was, they told me, a merchant who came hither every year at the pearl season to purchase pearls of the chief officer of the fishery. He had a large half-decked piragua of his own, and was accounted by the Spaniards as a very adventurous and clever fellow; and being liberal with his money, and always ready to treat the commoner sort of men, as well as to sing merry songs, and crack merry jokes over his liquor, this Señor Peralta was quite a great personage in the ranchiera. The evening of which I am talking, I often observed his eyes fixed with an intent look upon me, and once or twice, as I judged, he made a sign with his hands, but what he meant I could not for the life of me divine. Next day, some accident—what it was I forget—prevented Captain Garbo taking his bark out to the bank, and so having nothing to do, I went wandering, low-hearted enough, among the sand-banks and knolls of grass down by the sea. At length, seeing a comfortable shade formed by some thick bushes, which kept off the sun, but let the sea-breeze whistle through, I sat me down, and began to think upon my project of obtaining a canoe, and chancing the run to the Samballas. While I was thus musing, I suddenly started to hear a voice near me singing softly; and I started again, and a thrill of pleasure went through my veins, when I recognised the words of the song for English. Almost afraid that I was dreaming, and fearing to awake, I listened while the musician, who appeared to lie concealed among the bushes behind me, sang with a clear, lusty voice these verses, which I remembered to have heard in the playhouses in London:— ‘Sir Drake, whom well the world’s end knew, Which thou did compass round, And whom both poles of heaven once saw, Which north and south do bound. ‘The starres alone would make thee knowne If men were silent here; The sun himselfe cannot forget His fellow-travellere!’ The song being ended, I turned hastily round, exclaiming aloud—‘A countryman—a friend!’ And at the same time the bushes being rustled aside, out of them popped the grinning face of Señor Peralta! I staggered back with wonder, while the pearl-merchant called out, in good English—