Presently some one held to his lips a cup of the commandante’s rare old wine. Revived by the draught, he looked around him, shading his eyes from the light with his brown transparent hand. He was lying on the deck of the _Trionfo_. But his first distinct impression was of the blue sea, its waves tipped with foam; over them a white-winged sea-bird; in the distance one black hull—was it the _San Cristofero_? Turning his eyes to the other side, he noticed a strange-looking ship, apparently fastened to the _Trionfo_, but much smaller, and in form and fashion quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. But what was immediately around him soon drew his attention, blotting out all else from his sight. There—on the deck—horrors undreamed of met his view. Blood everywhere, and men lying dead: some as if in quiet sleep; and some, with clenched hands and agonized faces, whose last struggle seemed scarcely over yet. Rough uncouth figures moved to and fro amongst them, most of them carrying burdens. But Fray Fernando was nowhere to be seen. The man who had given José the wine made some remark in a foreign tongue, which, from its tone, was evidently designed to encourage him, and assure him of safety. But before he had collected his scattered senses sufficiently to attempt a reply in Spanish or Latin, his new friend was called away to another part of the ship. So he lay still where he was, in utter bewilderment—trying to think, trying to comprehend. At length a suppressed moan close beside him reached his ear, and brought him to himself at once. The low sound was more effectual to rouse him than the thunder of all the ship’s guns would have been. It was a moan evidently wrung by overpowering agony from a brave man’s reluctant lips. José looked. Not two paces from him lay a wounded cavalier, his splendid dress all torn and blood-stained, his face ghastly, his hand upon his breast, as if to stay the streams of blood that were bearing life away. A moment more and José, strong enough now in his heart’s tenderness and pity, was kneeling beside his enemy, Don Francisco Solis. Raising him gently in his arms, he tore his own tunic to bind his wound, and put the wine-cup to his lips from which he himself had drunk so lately. In vain. At every breath the blood welled faster. The hand of Death was on the proud young cavalier. Yet not all in vain. He tried to speak. “Call some of my people,” he murmured. “Varco—Rodriguez—Martin—what has become of them all?” “I believe the ship is in the hands of pirates,” José said. “The soldiers, no doubt, have been slain or made prisoners. Anything I can do for you, I will.” “Who are you?” “One who bears you good-will. You are sorely wounded, I fear.” “I am slain. With this blood my life flows out. Call me a priest.” “That I know not how to do. Put your trust in the mercy of God—in the blessed Saviour who died for you.”