When he came to, he was lying in the guard-room of the Presidio. Among the group of people who surrounded him he recognized the gaunt features of the Commander, the sympathetic eyes of Father Esteban, and the fisherman who had disappeared. When he rose on his elbow, and attempted to lift himself feebly, the fisherman, with a cry of gratitude, threw himself on his knees, and kissed his helpless hand. "He lives, he lives! your Excellencies! Saints be praised, he lives! The hero--the brave Americano--the noble caballero who delivered me from the madman." "Who are you? and whence come you?" demanded the Commander of Hurlstone, with grave austerity. Hurlstone hesitated; the priest leaned forward with a half anxious, half warning gesture. There was a sudden rustle in the passage; the crowd gave way as Miss Keene, followed by Mrs. Markham, entered. The young girl's eyes caught those of the prostrate man. With an impulsive cry she ran towards him. "Mr. Hurlstone!" "Hurlstone," echoed the group, pressing nearer the astonished man. The Comandante lifted his hand gravely with a gesture of silence, and then slowly removed his plumed hat. Every head was instantly uncovered. "Long live our brave and noble ally, Don Diego! Long live the beautiful Dona Leonor!" A faint shade of sadness passed over the priest's face. He glanced from Hurlstone to Miss Keene. "Then you have consented?" he whispered. Hurlstone cast a rapid glance at Eleanor Keene. "I consent!" PART II. FREED. CHAPTER I. THE MOURNERS AT SAN FRANCISCO. The telegraph operator at the Golden Gate of San Francisco had long since given up hope of the Excelsior. During the months of September and October, 1854, stimulated by the promised reward, and often by the actual presence of her owners, he had shown zeal and hope in his scrutiny of the incoming ships. The gaunt arms of the semaphore at Fort Point, turned against the sunset sky, had regularly recorded the smallest vessel of the white-winged fleet which sought the portal of the bay during that eventful year of immigration; but the Excelsior was not amongst them. At the close of the year 1854 she was a tradition; by the end of January, 1855, she was forgotten. Had she been engulfed in her own element she could not have been more completely swallowed up than in the changes of that shore she never reached. Whatever interest or hope was still kept alive in solitary breasts the world never knew. By the significant irony of Fate, even the old-time semaphore that should have signaled her was abandoned and forgotten.