Huntoon's opening was happily chosen. Had he apologized, all would have been lost; but the freebooter was pleased with the boy's boldness. Yet that alone would scarcely have won the day. It was the bright eyes of Peggy Neville that lent a certain civility to his surly voice. "If I'd known whose boat we were running down, I'd never ha' given myself the trouble to come about, for I could ha' seen you go down with her in great comfort; but since ye chanced to have this young lady aboard, I'm not sorry things fell out as they did. But that's as far as I'll go. And as for your cargo yonder, I warn you that all we save of that goes to Ingle and Company, to make good the damage to _The Reformation_." "A bit of paint--" began Huntoon, and then turned his back and stood looking over the rail, watching the death-struggle of _The Lady Betty_. The little vessel rolled first this way and then that, shipping water in her hold at every turn. There is a solemnity in watching a sinking ship akin to that of standing by a death-bed. As Huntoon looked, a wave of memories swept over him. He recalled the first journey he had taken aboard her, the pride of setting out with his father, the smell of tar on the ropes, as the sailors cast them loose, and the anxious face of his mother as she stood on the pier to wave a farewell. With this thought of his father and mother came the wonder how this disaster would strike them. He dreaded their consternation at the loss, but he felt sure of their sympathy. Blessed is the son who holds to that, let come what may. Meanwhile, Neville lay on the packet's deck, pale as death, with eyelids closed, and only the faint beating of his heart giving evidence that he still lived. Peggy sat beside him, holding sal volatile to his nostrils. The sailors stood around in a sympathetic circle, their Monmouth caps doffed, though the winter air was searching. None doubted that they were in the face of death, and the roughest sailor grows reverent in that august presence. At length, however, the lowered lids quivered and lifted themselves first a crack, then wider and wider till the eyes--those long steel-gray eyes--rested with full recognition on Huntoon and Philpotts. His lips moved, and formed one half-audible word, "St. Mary's!" Huntoon looked questioningly at Ingle who answered as if he had spoken,-- "No, by the Lord! and any one who suggests turning about for so much as a mile, will be spitted like a pigeon on my sword here and flung into the sea." "As you will," said Huntoon, coolly. "So far as I know, none has suggested it save this man who is raving in delirium from the cut in his head. For my part, I had far rather he did not get his wish, for we have but just saved him from Brent's clutches." "How's that? I thought they were as thick as thieves." "So they were; but time brings strange revenges. It was after you did set sail that the priest was murdered at St. Gabriel's."