We left Don Rafaele in a state of great excitement. After hesitating a moment, he stepped out on the locker, outside his berth, and so to the deck. All was confusion above, and even on the same deck, in the steerage; and feet were heard rushing to and fro, as if the whole crew had gone distracted. Stretching out one of his hands, he steadied himself against the table, and paused to consider what he should do. As he did so, the ship, without the least forewarning, returned the broadside of the galleon; and, by the rebound she made in the water, threw him fairly off his feet.

Though his head fell with some violence against the locker, the excitement he laboured under, and the hurry and distraction of his thoughts, with the hundred terrors around, did not admit of his feeling any pain, or, if he were sensible of a slight aching, did not suffer him to give it heed. He sprang to his feet in an instant, and, stretching his hands out before him, so that he should not run against the table, made for the cabin-door.

After a little time, he found the door, and succeeded in drawing it open. The steerage was full of smoke, here black, and there white, according as it was near to or removed from several prospective portfires; and, through the gloom, he distinguished the figures of a dozen men, darting towards the main-hatchway, about thirty feet for’ard. The stench of gunpowder, emitted by the discharged guns, with the dense smoke, was almost suffocating; but, as the hatchways were open, the fresh air rushed in from above, and soon made the atmosphere more supportable. Before the smoke was dispelled, however, the gunners, who were the men that had figured in it, had passed up the main hatchway; and Don Rafaele stood on the lower deck alone.

A lighted lanthorn was standing on the deck, a few feet in his front; and, when he found himself alone, he sprang forward a pace, and caught it up. The din that now prevailed was quite stunning; and the report of fire-arms, the clashing of weapons, and the tramp of feet, mingled with loud hurrahs, shouts, and deep groans, made his heart quake, and seemed to rivet him to the spot. Nevertheless, he did not remain stationary. As the din grew more confounding, he sprang back to the cabin, and, with a trembling step, passed inward. Securing the lanthorn on the table, he sat down on the locker, and there resolved to await whatever was to betide.

But he did not keep his resolution. It would, indeed, have been a stout heart, or an inordinately insensible one, that could have met such an ordeal so passively. The din that prevailed was absolutely appalling, and, unless actively engaged, with danger to animate, and action to support him, no man even, much less a stripling, could have sustained it with unshaken nerves. Yet overhead all was quiet, and the noise seemed, as was actually the case, to come from one side, rather than to prevail in the ship. Don Rafaele was perfectly bewildered for a while: at length, burying his face in his hands, he burst into tears.

He remained thus for several minutes, when, still weeping, he threw himself on his knees, and raised his hands and eyes towards heaven. Long and fervent was his prayer, as was evident, not by his words (for he uttered none), but by his deep emotion, and the stirring and varied expressions of his face. At last, he rose from his knees, and, sitting down on the locker, near his former position, again buried his face in his hands.

He had been disposed in this manner but a short time, when the sounds of strife and turmoil ceased, and all became perfectly quiet. He was amazed. What could have happened? How had Hildebrand, whose voice he had distinguished so often in the recent din, or fancied he had distinguished, come off. He might be slain!

The heart of the young Spaniard turned cold as the bare possibility of such a catastrophe occurred to him. Shuddering with horror, he again turned his beautiful face upward, and his full eyes, brimmed with tears, seconded his prayer for his friend’s safety. But some time elapsed before he was to be assured of that happy circumstance. Though the tramp of feet overhead was now once more audible, no one approached the cabin; and he was too much agitated, not only with his fears, but by sorrow, to seek for information on the deck. Near an hour intervened before any one drew nigh. Then, however, with a beating heart, he heard a step descending through the contiguous hatchway. It paused at the cabin-door; the latch, which he had fixed in its socket, was then quickly raised; and Hildebrand burst into the cabin.

Don Rafaele sprang to meet him with the ardour of a mistress, and, as he came up with him, caught him affectionately by the hand.

“Thou art safe, then?” he cried, at the same time gazing earnestly in his face.

Hildebrand had removed from his face and apparel all trace of his participation in the recent conflict; but, notwithstanding this, his look, on his entry into the cabin, was pale and sad. As he met the warm welcome of his youthful friend, however, his countenance brightened; and if his eyes did not actually sparkle, they looked cheerful, and even lively. It was so inspiriting to receive such an earnest welcome, and, after encountering a strife so deadly, to find himself the object of such a devoted attachment, that the deepest affections of his heart were aroused, and, through their soothing influence, the strong excitement he had been labouring under was assuaged. A bright smile suffused his lip as he replied to Don Rafaele.

“Ay, and unhurt, Senhor,” he said. “’Twill please thee less, mayhap (since the enemy were thy countrymen), to be told that we have conquered.”

“Now, by Madonna, I am right glad on’t!” answered Don Rafaele, with sparkling eyes. “I would the foe had been any other than Spaniards, but, since it was not so ordered, I am heartily pleased that thou hast beaten them off.”

“I have even captured them,” observed Hildebrand.

“Alack!” sighed Don Rafaele.

“Nay, be of good heart, fair Senhor!” returned Hildebrand. “Because thy country war with mine, it follows not, in my conceit, that we two be adversaries. I’faith, no! Ere thou shouldst suffer wrong, I would perish in defending thee!”

Don Rafaele pressed his hand.

“Be of good cheer, then!” pursued Hildebrand. “I will straight minister thee a potion”—here he smiled again—“will give thee a new heart.”

“An’ ’twill do that,” smiled Don Rafaele, “prithee let us have it with all convenience; for, by my sooth, my heart is now so marvellously low, I have a mind to think I have even lost it. In such case, a new one will be right welcome.”

“Have at thee, then,” said Hildebrand. And, raising his voice, he added—“Without, there!”

His summons was answered by the silent steward, whose connexion with the cabin, in all matters of eating and drinking, has already been noticed. On his appearance, Hildebrand directed him, in English, to bring in some goblets, sugar, and hot water, which, though he made no answer, he did promptly. When these were supplied, he turned to the adjacent locker, and extracted therefrom a small boutique, or leather flask, filled with spirit. Mingling its contents with some hot water and sugar, he shortly compounded a sufficient quantity of the potion he had so eulogised, in recommending it to Don Rafaele, to fill two goblets. On thus completing its preparation, he handed one of the goblets to Don Rafaele.

“Men boast of wine,” he said, as he placed the sparkling goblet in his hand; “and, to speak the simple sooth, wine hath much excellent virtue; but, when the heart is low, commend me to old Cognac. It hath a sweeter perfume than the rose, and excels honey in its savour. As a medicament, no drug may be held in its comparison, and ’twill remedy more ills than the cunningest apothecary. Beseech thee, take it to thy heart, fair Senhor!”

Don Rafaele, with a light smile, accepted the proffered goblet, and raised it to his lips.

“By my sooth, ’tis an admirable good liquor!” he exclaimed. “Yet do I marvel, Senhor Captain, when thou holdest it in such hearty estimation, thou drinkest of it so sparingly; for, if I be of true remembrance, this is the first time I have ever seen thee partake of it.”

“Thou art right!” answered Hildebrand; “for, if it be drunk for mere sport, its notable good properties become of no account. But when the heart is faint after battle, the body weary with action, or the spirit oppressed with heaviness, or when, in an hour of joyfulness, we would ‘kill the fatted calf,’ it lendeth our inward man a ministering cheerfulness, which it is right pleasant to behold.”

“In sooth, it hath made me merry,” replied Don Rafaele, “yet will I, at the present pass, take no more on’t.”

“Thou wilt pledge me to thy mistress?” said Hildebrand.

Don Rafaele made no answer.

“Ah! thou art fearful of thy head,” resumed Hildebrand. “Well, well, ’tis a wise fear, and becomes thee happily. It minds me of the saying of a notable poet, a countryman of mine, whom thou mayst one day see—‘O, that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains!’”

Don Rafaele still sat silent, with his eyes, which had before been raised to those of Hildebrand, turned towards the floor, and his brow looking sad and mournful. After a brief space, however, he spoke, though in a low voice, and with his eyes still downcast.

“Didst not say thou wouldst pledge me to thy mistress?” he asked.

“An’ thou art minded to take my pledge, I will,” answered Hildebrand, smiling, though mournfully.

“Prithee advise me first what like are her eyes?” replied Don Rafaele.

“Black—black as death,” said Hildebrand, “yet sparkling as day.”

Don Rafaele looked up. “What like are her cheeks?” he asked.

“Of a dark complexion,” answered Hildebrand. “I cannot tell how lovely.”

A smile stole over the face of Don Rafaele, and, though he still spoke low, the tone of his voice was more cheerful, as he added—“What like is her hair?”

“In hue, ’twould shame the raven,” returned Hildebrand. “Moreover, it hath such an excellent fair curl, and is so admirably dressed withal—”

“Hold thee there,” cried Don Rafaele, with a merry laugh, “or thou wilt presently make her an angel. I will even take thy pledge without further description.”

“To her health, then!” exclaimed Hildebrand.

Don Rafaele, still smiling, caught up his goblet, and raised it to his lips. After just sipping of it contents, he laid it down again, and once more turned to Hildebrand.

“Thou art assured of her love: art thou not?” he said.

“I rather hold it in doubt,” answered Hildebrand.

“Thou art grievously in the wrong, trust me,” returned Don Rafaele. “Look on’t more cheerfully. The maiden lives not would refuse thee!”

“Speak on’t no more, I prithee,” said Hildebrand; “for it makes me sorrowful.”

“Let it not do that,” replied Don Rafaele. “Give me thine ear a while, and, if thou think’st ’twill disperse thy melancholy, I will straight sing thee a song.”

“An’ thou lovest me, let us have it,” returned Hildebrand. “An’ it be a love-song, ’twill soothe me right speedily.”

Don Rafaele, without making a reply, leaned back against the wainscot, and, after a moment’s consideration, sang a song which may be thus translated:—

Though the images and sentiments of the song were not very striking, Hildebrand listened to it with the deepest attention, and, as it progressed, with no little emotion. Yet it was not the song—although, in its Spanish dress, it was well calculated to win and arrest the ear—but the singer, that moved him. His voice was so soft, its range so comprehensive, and its full and varied cadences so exquisitely delivered, that it sank to his very heart, and rapt him in wonder and admiration. He could hardly believe that the human voice was capable of such surpassing delicacy of expression. Even when Don Rafaele had ceased singing, his delicious tones still rang in his ear, and his ample chest, as if unable to command itself, still heaved with emotion. Gradually he became more composed, but he did not speak, and he seemed, by his silence, and the deep lines of thought that marked his brow, to be no way disposed to speak. Whatever it might be that he meditated on, his reverie, far from dispersing, became deeper and more deep, and appeared to increase in gloom as it advanced. His complexion grew pale and sad; his eyes, heavy; and, in the expression of his whole countenance, he revealed distinct and unquestionable traces of an uneasy mind.

After thus meditating for nearly half an hour, he seemed to arouse himself, and suddenly turned round to his companion.

Don Rafaele had fallen asleep.

“Fair, sweet youth!” said Hildebrand, in a low voice, as he looked on his lovely countenance, “this is a hard life for thee—and on me lies the blame. But I will be tender of thee. Albeit, in my thoughtless folly, I have unwittingly done wrong to her, she shall leave no charge on me concerning thee.”

So speaking, he caught the sleeping Spaniard in his arms, and, without loosening his clothes, raised him up, and carried him to his berth. There, with a deep sigh, he laid him gently on the bed, and left him to his repose.

He now proposed to take an hour’s rest himself. His duties did not debar him from this indulgence, as he had already, previous to leaving the galleon, made every arrangement that his ship and prize required. The command of the latter he had intrusted to Halyard, with a crew of forty men; and the watch of his own ship, during his stay below, was consigned to the able governance of Tom Tarpaulin. Both ships were bound straight for England, and, though the “Eliza” was a far better sailer than the heavy galleon, were so navigated, with the help of fair weather, as to keep constantly in company. Thus associated, they arrived, in about three weeks’ time, safe in the river Thames.