"Oh, that is easily told. My father has a long pedigree, but a cramped estate. Our Portuguese nobility are mostly in the same position. My mother, of the old and princely house of the Guzmans, died when I was quite a child, and my life has been passed with an aunt, in France. She, too, died, and the convent of the Augustine sisters was no longer a home for me; besides, my education was finished." "I wish it had comprised the English language, Senhora," said Hughes, smiling. "I wish it had, too, for I should like to talk to Captain Weber," replied the girl, laughing. "To continue, my father was honoured with his present mission, and was about to refuse it on my account. It may lead to a definite appointment, and as he never denies me anything, I easily persuaded him to accept, and to let me accompany him." The brig's bows had been during the last hour all round the compass, but at that moment she lay with her head to the southward. A heavy puff of hot wind struck her suddenly, taking her aback and giving her sternway, the studding sail booms snapping off short in the irons, the broken ends with their gear coming tumbling down, those of the mainyard falling on the quarter-deck. The whole was over in an instant. "In with the studding-sails, my lads, look alive," called the captain, as the watch on deck busied themselves with the useless sails. "You will excuse me, gentlemen," said Captain Weber, "that puff is but a precursor of the wind that is to follow, and I must get the sails off the brig." Taking off his cap politely, the captain turned to his work, while, with a ceremonious salute, Dom Maxara offered his arm to his daughter to conduct her below. "Good night, gentlemen, we shall meet again in the morning," said the noble. A pressure of the hand, a low "Good night," a silvery toned voice repeating the word, and Captain Hughes found himself alone, gazing over the bulwarks into the blue sea, and thinking. Thinking of Isabel, of course. Then she was not rich, and he was glad of it. But why should he be glad? for he was not rich himself, and beyond a few hundreds a year and his pay, he had nothing to boast of. What on earth did Dona Isabel's position matter to him? A fair wind and the brig would spread her wings. A few days and the party would separate at the Cape, in all probability never to meet again. She was of an ancient race, the blood of the Guzmans mantled in that blush. Well, he, too, was of old Welsh blood, and could count kith and kin up to the days when the Druids held their unholy rites and sacrifices on the heights of Penmaenmawr and Snowdon, when Caswallon La Hir, his ancestor, wandered through the forests of Caerleon and Bodysgallen, clad in his mantle of skins. But what was that to him, and what had he to do with the blood of the Guzmans? He would think of other matters.