Don Francisco feebly raised his hand, seeking something suspended round his neck. José found it for him, and put it to his lips. It was a small gold cross, with a costly jewel in the centre, beneath which was inserted a relic of inestimable price, a fragment of “the true cross.” “Oh, Señor Don Francisco!” said José earnestly, “look with your heart to Christ. He can pardon your sins. He can save you, and take you this day home to Himself. Think of Him.” But it was a thought of earth that filled the heart of the dying man at that moment. “Will you show me Christian charity for the love of God?” he murmured. “For the love of God—I surely will.” “Then bring—or send—this cross to my beloved wife, Doña Victoria Solis, at Cuzco.—But what is this?” he faltered, making an effort to look up. “Your tongue Spanish, your face brown—who are you, in Heaven’s name?” “One who will do your errand faithfully, Don Francisco Solis de Toledo—though he grieves that it is so sad a one. Is there any message you desire to send with the cross—to Coyllur?” “Tell her—ah, my breath is failing—tell her I did my duty—like an honourable and valiant noble of Castile—and that I truly loved her—thought of her to the last. Although—Tell her—” No more was to be told. Already the mists of the great darkness were gathering over the eyes of Don Francisco. Still he tried to murmur something, which José’s utmost efforts failed to catch. But he held the cross before him, that his last conscious look might rest upon the symbol of divine love and forgiveness. And thus, with his head pillowed on the breast of his enemy, and the hand he had disdained to fight ministering tenderly to his last earthly needs, the haughty spirit of Don Francisco Solis passed away. José, scarce willing to believe that all was over, still held him in his arms, when a tall, strongly-built man, not without a rough stateliness and dignity of manner, came up the companion-ladder, stood near the two figures, the dead and the living, and looked thoughtfully at them. His hair and beard were black, and his complexion well sunburnt. His dress was plain,—a buff leather jerkin, evidently the worse for the recent fight; but a sword with a jewelled hilt was stuck in his belt;—it had no sheath, and was still bloody. “My poor fellow,” he said to José, in imperfect Spanish, “your master is dead.” “The señor commandante was not my master,” José answered, looking up. “He was my enemy.” “Your enemy!” the other repeated in surprise. “In that case you have proved yourself a Christian, and a good one. You are one of the two prisoners whom we found in the hold?” “Yes, señor.” “You are free now. We Englishmen set the captives free, and deliver the oppressed, wherever we go.” “_Englishmen!_ Are you indeed Englishmen? Then I thank God that I have lived to see this day.”