The viands were indifferent; but the wine, which was part of the spoil of the _Trionfo_, made amends, and was duly appreciated by most of the party. But whatever else the little festival lacked, in one thing it was favourably distinguished from many more pretentious entertainments—every man who took his seat at the board had a truly happy and thankful heart. Even although the attack of the _San Cristofero_ had prevented their rifling the _Trionfo_ as thoroughly as they would otherwise have done, gold and silver enough had been won that day to make the fortunes both of the owners and of the crew of the _Sea Snake_. If it was not strictly true of the latter, that “the youngest cabin-boy amongst them might be a captain for riches,” the glowing hyperbole was little more than a natural and pardonable exaggeration. Perhaps only those who have greatly dared and greatly suffered can taste the full joy of such success, more than crowning their utmost hopes. Yet this was the least joy of that joyful day. When the meal was over, the captain filled a cup of wine, and, addressing Fray Fernando and José in the best Spanish he could muster, said, very simply, “Señores and true brothers, I desire to pledge you this day in grateful friendship. First, however, I would fain let you know what I and others owe to your kindness. I have not much Spanish, as you perceive; but our good chaplain, who has the tongue of the learned, shall speak for me.” “Nay,” said Walter Grey, with eager emotion, “let me speak. I know all.” “Tell your own tale, if you will, my boy,” said the captain, looking at him affectionately. “Mine you cannot tell, for as yet you know it not.” “And mine,” Walter acquiesced, “our dear friends know already.” Here the chaplain, a quiet, good-looking man in a cassock, took up the word, addressing himself in very fair Castilian to Fray Fernando and to José:—“Señor Walter Grey, as doubtless you are already aware, is the only son of his mother, and she is a widow. You also know, probably, in what manner he left his home, and why.” “That,” Walter again interposed, and in English, “I have not shrunk from telling these my friends, humbling and painful as was the confession. Yet,” he added, with crimsoned cheek, “for the sake of others who are here present, I repeat it now. Allured by vain dreams of gold and glory, I selfishly and wickedly forgot all that I should most have remembered—my mother, my duty, my God.” “That is but one side of the story, and not too fairly put either,” said the captain. “Sir Thomas, obey orders, and speak out without fear or favour. Let these, our Spanish friends, know that it was not altogether through Master Walter’s own demerit that he proved a runagate.” Sir Thomas resumed his interrupted discourse in Spanish:—“The captain desires me to inform you that he considers himself the person most to blame for the fact of Señor Walter’s flight, which took place from his father’s house in London.”