Rio Medio was the name of the town to which Carlos was going--which his uncle owned. They moved away from above. What was I to believe? What could this mean? But the second mate’s, “Scoot, young man,” seemed to come to my ears like the blast of a trumpet. I became suddenly intensely anxious to find Macdonald--to see no more of Carlos. From above came suddenly a gruff voice in Spanish. “Señor, it would be a great folly.” Tomas Castro was descending the ladder gingerly. He was coming to fetch his bundle. I went hastily into the distance of the vast, dim cavern of spare room that served for the steerage. “I want him very much,” Carlos said. “I like him. He would be of help to us.” “It’s as your worship wills,” Castro said gruffly. They were both at the bottom of the ladder. “But an Englishman there would work great mischief. And this youth----” “I will take him, Tomas,” Carlos said, laying a hand on his arm. “Those others will think he is a spy. I know them,” Castro muttered. “They will hang him, or work some devil’s mischief. You do not know that Irish judge--the _canaille_, the friend of priests.” “He is very brave. He will not fear,” Carlos said. I came suddenly forward. “I will not go with you,” I said, before I had reached them even. Castro started back as if he had been stung, and caught at the wooden hand that sheathed his steel blade. “Ah, it is you, Señor,” he said, with an air of relief and dislike. Carlos, softly and very affectionately, began inviting me to go to his uncle’s town. His uncle, he was sure, would welcome me. Jamaica and a planter’s life were not fit for me. I had not then spoken very loudly, or had not made my meaning very clear. I felt a great desire to find Macdonald, and a simple life that I could understand. “I am not going with you,” I said, very loudly this time. He stopped at once. Through the scuttle of the half-deck we heard a hubbub of voices, of people exchanging greetings, of Christian names called out joyously. A tumultuous shuffling of feet went on continuously over our heads. The ship was crowded with people from the shore. Perhaps Macdonald was amongst them, even looking for me. “Ah, _amigo mio_, but you _must_ now,” said Carlos gently--“you must------” And, looking me straight in the face with a still, penetrating glance of his big, romantic eyes, “It is a good life,” he whispered seductively, “and I like you, John Kemp. You are young-very young yet. But I love you very much for your own sake, and for the sake of one I shall never see again.” He fascinated me. He was all eyes in the dusk, standing in a languid pose just clear of the shaft of light that fell through the scuttle in a square patch. I lowered my voice, too. “What life?” I asked. “Life in my uncle’s palace,” he said, so sweetly and persuasively that the suggestiveness of it caused a thrill in me. His uncle could nominate me to posts of honour fit for a _caballero_.