Cornbury, his red poll glowing a dull ember in the moonlight, stood by the side of his friend, erect, smiling--his usual inscrutable self. Presently, when a lantern had been brought, the man with the black beard came forward again and placed himself, arms akimbo, before the bedraggled figures of the fugitives. His voice was coarse and thick, like his face and body. As he leaned sideways to accommodate the squint of one eye and looked at them in high humor, an odor of garlic and brandy proclaimed itself so generously that even the rising breeze could not whip it away. “Soho!” he said again. “Soho! soho!” while he swayed drunkenly from one foot to the other. “Queer fishin’ even for the Thames, mateys. Soho! If there be luck in hodd numbers, then ’ere’s the very luck o’ Danny McGraw, for of all the hoddities-- Ho, Redhead, whither was ye bound? Newgate or Tyburn or the Tower? The Tower? Ye aren’t got much o’ the hair o’ prisoners o’ state.” Cornbury looked him over coolly, and then, with a laugh, “Bedad, my dear man, we’d had a smell of all three, I’m thinking.” By this time half the crew of the vessel were gathered in a leering and grinning circle. “Pst!” said one; “’tis the Duke o’ York in dishguise.” “The Duke o’ York,” said another. “Ai! yi! an’ the little one’s the Prince o’ Wales.” Blackbeard thrust his nose under that of the Irishman. “Well, Redhead,” he cried, “wot’s the crime? Murder or thieving or harson?” To lend force to his query he clapped his hand down upon Cornbury’s shoulder. The Irishman’s eyes gleamed and his hand went to his side, but he forgot that his weapon was no longer there. He shrugged a careless shoulder and drew away a pace. “Whist!” he said, good-humoredly; “’tis the King I’ve just killed.” “Yaw! ’Tis the red of the blood-royal upon his head,” said the drunkard, amid a wild chorus of laughter. Here a tall figure thrust through the grinning crowd, which gave back a step at the sound of his voice.