“Right you are, my dear! We are a lot of braggarts and ignoramuses! So far from being Christians, civilized and enlightened, we do not even know what these terms imply. We are heathen, barbarians, and we live in the twilight. Right you are, my dear, as to your opinions, but wrong in your way of putting them. Interrupting your father. Discipline should be maintained, my dear. Remember that!” said the old skipper, not unkindly. Before the astonished Wynnette could reply, Rosemary put in her piteous little plaint, and said: “Oh, Uncle Gideon! dear Uncle Gideon! Tell us about—about——” She meant to say “Roland Bayard,” but she reddened, and substituted: “The pirates!” “Of course! That is what I brought you here for. You have heard about the pirate Silver, and his ship, the _Argente_?” “I have seen notices of depredations made by the _Argente_. It is a privateer in the Confederate service, is it not?” inquired Mr. Force. “Privateer? Yes, and worse! It is a pirate! In the Confederate service? No; no further than running the blockade, to carry in merchandise to sell at ruinous prices, would go! The _Argente_ is a privateer, a blockade runner, a slaver, and a pirate. Just as, a few years ago, we thought war had passed away from the face of the earth forever, so we thought that piracy had been swept from the sea. But we were mistaken in both cases. Our Civil War, the blockading of our Southern ports, the emancipation, and consequent stampede of the negroes, have brought into action a fleet of sea robbers who call themselves privateers, and pretend to be in the service of this or that faction, but who are really pirates and slavers. They are armed to the teeth and are manned by the most reckless desperadoes gathered from all nations—mostly jail birds, convicts, criminals. They take our merchant ships, they steal slaves from the West Indies, run the blockade and sell them in our Southern ports; or, with equal impartiality, when opportunity is given, they decoy slaves from the Southern plantations by the promise of a free passage to the North, and they carry them to the West Indies, where they sell them to the planters. The most notorious of these brigands of the sea is the _Argente_. I have never yet heard of any of them being taken.” The old sailor having talked himself out of breath, stopped, wiped his forehead, and flung his rolled handkerchief with force upon the deck. “But, Uncle Gideon—dear Uncle Gideon—tell us about—about the pirates,” pleaded Rosemary, pale with sorrow. “My pet, I have told you about the pirates,” grunted the skipper. “But—but—about—about—the loss of the _Kitty_,” pleaded Rosemary. The old skipper snatched up his cap from the deck and flung it down again with violence. Then he said: