His guide led him to the upper deck. The night breeze blew in his face, deliciously chill after the foul air below. He filled his lungs with draughts of it. On the port quarter tossed a galaxy of twinkling lights—the admiral and the third ship. Below in their rat-run holds were scores of people in no better plight than himself, Ortho reflected, in some cases worse, for many of the Dutchmen were wounded. A merry world! His guide ran up the quarter-deck ladder. The officer of the watch, a dark silhouette lounging against a swivel mounted on the poop, snapped out a challenge in Arabic to which the guide replied. He opened the door of the poop cabin and thrust Ortho within. It was a small place, with the exception of a couple of brass-bound chests, a table and a chair, quite unfurnished, but it was luxurious after a fashion and, compared with the squalor of the hold, paradise. Mattresses were laid on the floor all round the walls, and on these were heaped a profusion of cushions, cushions of soft leather and of green and crimson velvet. The walls were draped with hangings worked with the same colors, and a lamp of fretted brass-work, with six burners, hung by chains from the ceiling. The gigantic Moor who had called the crew to prayers sat on the cushions in a corner, his feet drawn up under him, a pyramid of snowy draperies. He was running a chain of beads through his fingers, his lips moved in silence. More than ever did he look like a Bible patriarch. On the port side a tall Berber lay outstretched, his face to the wall; a watch-keeper taking his rest. At the table, his back to the ornamented rudder-casing, sat a stout little man with a cropped head, scarlet face and bright blue eyes. Ortho saw to his surprise that he did not wear Moorish dress but the heavy blue sea-coat of an English sailor, a canary muffler and knee-breeches. The little man’s unflinching bright eyes ran all over him. “Cornishman?” he inquired in perfect English. “Yes, sir.” “Fisherman?” apprising the boy’s canvas smock, apron and boots. “Yes, sir.” “Blown off-shore—eh?” “Yes, sir.” “Where from? Isles of Scilly?” “No, sir; Monks Cove.” “Where’s that?” “Sou’west corner of Mount’s Bay, sir, near Penzance.” “Penzance, ah-ha! Penzance,” the captain repeated. “Now what do I know of Penzance?” He screwed his eyes up, rubbed the back of his head, puzzling. “Penzance!” Then he banged his fist on the table. “Damme, of course!” He turned to Ortho again. “Got any property in this Cove—houses, boats or belike?” “No, sir.” “Father? . . . Brothers? . . . Relations?” “Only a widowed mother, sir, and a brother.” “They got any property?” “No, sir.” “What does your brother do?” “Works on a farm, sir.” “Hum, yes, thought as much; couple of nets and an old boat stopped up with tar—huh! Never mind, you’re healthy; you’ll sell.” He said something in Arabic to the old Moor, who wagged his flowing beard and went on with his beads.