And now the “dark-faced sacristan” stood on the deck, holding parley with a soldier who acted as sentinel. All took notice of his gallant air and manly bearing, and saw that he wore his handsome national costume with as much stately grace as a Spanish cavalier could wear his cloak and sword. “A fine bird that, and in fine feathers,” muttered the Quatrero. Meanwhile the soldier conducted José Viracocha to the captain, of whom he made some request, which appeared to be granted immediately. The captain politely accompanied him to the gangway, and by a motion of his hand indicated that the slaves were permitted to hold communication with him. José stepped at once to the bench where sat the English youth, whose golden hair and fair complexion rendered him conspicuous amongst the swarthy Spaniards and dusky Creoles and Mulattoes. With a bow and a smile he placed his basket of fruit in his hand. Walter, in his surprise, at first took it mechanically. Then reflecting that the Indian probably wished to sell, and that he had no money, he tried to convey as much by signs. “Perhaps, señor, you speak Spanish?” said José, making use of that language. “I do,” Walter answered, more and more surprised. “Then I pray of you to accept my gift, señor Englishman,” the other said, adding the last two words in a low voice. Some of the more forward amongst those around beginning to beg from him, he responded at once, “Yes, yes, poor fellows, you shall all have something.” And he scattered small pieces of silver with a liberal hand amongst them, taking especial care that the feeble, worn-out men who sat on the bench next the water should have their full share.[47] Both Walter’s disposition and his interest led him to share the Indian’s gift very freely with his comrades, of course not forgetting his special friend the matador. And the sweet and luscious chirimoyas proved very acceptable to men obliged to sit unsheltered under the fiery blaze of a tropical sun. Every one supposed that the Indian was the dispenser of his master’s charity, though for what reason either he or the Franciscan monk should have singled out Walter Grey as the chief recipient of their bounty could not be surmised. The young Englishman’s story was known to all on board. But, fortunately for him, the captain of the galley was no bigot; he was a thoughtless, idle young prodigal, the son of a respectable merchant, sent to sea in despair by his relatives, whose interest procured him the situation he filled. The commander of the troops on board, on the other hand, was far too fine a gentleman to have any concern at all with the slaves, beyond holding his men in readiness to shoot them down if they attempted mutiny. Thus, whilst every one believed, as a matter of course, that Walter Grey, the English heretic, was infinitely worse than a thief or a murderer, no one thought much about him.