His look of deep dejection, and the tears that often, at this period, fell silently from his eyes, were not unnoticed by his compassionate comrade. This man went amongst his companions by the name of the “Matador;” for almost all the galley-slaves had quaint _sobriquets_, by which they were distinguished, their real names being rarely known, and still more rarely used. Nor could Walter help remarking that he was singularly unlike the rest. He never joined in the revolting blasphemies with which the rowers’ benches so often resounded; he never tried to evade his share of the work, but rather exerted himself to shield and spare his weaker companions; and neither under the blazing tropical sun nor the drenching rains, neither in toil, in hunger, nor in pain, was he ever heard to murmur. By degrees Walter began to talk with him, to confide in him. And one day he abruptly uttered the substance of many a brooding thought,— “I hope they think me dead in England!” “Why hope that, señor?” “Better dead, than _here_. Better dead twice over, than a slave—and an apostate.” The last word, it need scarcely be said, was breathed in a low and cautious whisper. “That depends,”—the matador replied, with equal caution. Walter felt sorry he had ventured so far, and held his peace. But the matador resumed presently, of his own accord, “Life is better than death, señor.” “This is not life; it is living death,” Walter answered. “Not so, my young camerado. It is written, ‘The dead cannot praise Thee.’” “_Praise_! If you spoke of prayer, I might understand you. But who ever yet praised God in the galleys?” “One, at least, señor. A poor man who, long ago, in the depths of his despair, ‘cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles.’” “Do you mean—” Walter stopped and hesitated. “I wish,” he continued, looking at him with interest, “I wish you would tell me who you are; and what misfortune—crime I cannot believe it to have been—has brought you hither.” “Whereto would that serve, señor? Mine is an humble name, unknown to fame. And I do not, like you, suffer for my faith. I am here for the deeds wrought by my own right hand.” These words destroyed a hope, or rather a surmise, about the matador, that had of late been growing up silently in the mind of Walter. The old galley-slave went on,— “Do you think, my young camerado, that no man save yourself ever cursed the day of his birth, and sought death and found it not? The first year I spent at the oar, I would have thanked any man to give me a heave overboard, or to pass a sword through my body.” “The first year!” Walter echoed, with a long sigh. “I have been but seven months here, and they seem a lifetime. More years to follow!—More years! God help me!” “Amen. God comfort you, as He has comforted me.” “How?”