“When I gib de stove fire, den me gib de Cap-i-tan, wid de crew, some good breakfas,” said he with a gleam of satisfaction. This individual, reader, was Manuel Pereira, or, as he was called by his shipmates, Pe-rah-re. Manuel was born in Brazil, an extract of the Indians and Spanish, claiming birthright of the Portuguese nation. It mattered but very little to Manuel where he was born, for he had been so long tossed about in his hardy vocation that he had almost become alienated from the affections of birthplace. He had sailed so long under the protection of the main-jack of old England that he had formed a stronger allegiance to that country than to any other. He had sailed under it with pride, had pointed to its emblem, as if he felt secure, when it was unfurled, that the register-ticket which that government had given him was a covenant between it and himself; that it was a ticket to incite him to good behavior in a foreign country; and that the flag was sure to protect his rights, and insure, from the government to which he sailed respect and hospitality. He had sailed around the world under it--visited savage and semi-civilized nations--had received the hospitality of cannibals, had joined in the merry dance with the Otaheitian, had eaten fruits with the Hottentots, shared the coarse morsel of the Greenlander, been twice chased by the Patagonians--but what shall we say?--he was imprisoned, for the olive tints of his color, in a land where not only civilization rules in its brightest conquests, but chivalry and honor sound its fame within the lanes, streets, and court-yards. Echo asks, Where--where? We will tell the reader. That flag which had waved over him so long and in so many of his wayfarings--that flag which had so long boasted its rule upon the wave, and had protected him among the savage and the civilized, found a spot upon this wonderful globe where it ceased to do so, unless he could change his skin. CHAPTER III. THE SECOND STORM. ON the fourth night succeeding the perilous position of the Janson off Cape Antoine, the brig was making about seven knots, current of the gulf included. The sun had set beneath heavy radiant clouds, which rolled up like masses of inflamed matter, reflecting in a thousand mellow shades, and again spreading their gorgeous shadows upon the rippled surface of the ocean, making the picture serene and grand.