I had been in our cabin. A great bustle of shore-going, of leave-taking had sprung up all over the ship. Carlos and Castro had entered with a tall, immobile, gold-spectacled Spaniard, dressed all in white, and with a certain air of noticing and attentive deference, bowing a little as he entered the cabin in earnest conference with Tomas Castro. Carlos had preceded them with a certain nonchalance, and the Spaniard--it was the Señor Ramon, the merchant I had heard of--regarded him as if with interested curiosity. With Tomas he seemed already familiar. He stood in the doorway, against the strong light, bowing a little. With a certain courtesy, touched with indifference, Carlos made him acquainted with me. Ramon turned his searching, quietly analytic gaze upon me. “But is the _caballero_ going over, too?” he asked. Carlos said, “No. I think not, now.” And at that moment the second mate, shouldering his way through a white-clothed crowd of shore people, made up behind Señor Ramon. He held a letter in his hand. “I am going over,” he said, in his high nasal voice, and with a certain ferocity. Ramon looked round apprehensively. Carlos said, “The señor, my cousin, wishes for a Mr. Macdonald. You know him, senor?” Ramon made a dry gesture of perfect acquaintance. “I think I have seen him just now,” he said. “I will make inquiries.” All three of them had followed him, and became lost in the crowd. It was then, not knowing whether I should ever see Carlos again, and with a desperate, unhappy feeling of loneliness, that I had sought out Barnes in the dim immensity of the steerage. In the square of wan light that came down the scuttle he was cording his hair-trunk--unemotional and very matter-of-fact. He began to talk in an everyday voice about his plans. An uncle was going to meet him, and to house him for a day or two before he went to the barracks. “Mebbe we’ll meet again,” he said. “I’ll be here many years, I think.” He shouldered his trunk and climbed unromantically up the ladder. He said he would look for Macdonald for me. It was absurd to suppose that the strange ravings of the second mate had had an effect on me. “Hanged! Pirates!” Was Carlos really a pirate, or Castro, his humble friend? It was vile of me to suspect Carlos. A couple of men, meeting by the scuttle, began to talk loudly, every word coming plainly to my ears in the stillness of my misery, and the large deserted steerage. One of them, new from home, was asking questions. Another answered: “Oh, I lost half a seroon the last voyage--the old thing.” “Haven’t they routed out the scoundrels yet?” the other asked. The first man lowered his voice. I caught only that “the admiral was an old fool--no good for this job. He’s found out the name of the place the pirates come from--Rio Medio. That’s the place, only he can’t get in at it with his three-deckers. You saw his flagship?”