The Scorpion and her prize had arrived safely in Havana. Willis, heavily manacled, was brought on deck, where, joined by the small remnant of his crew, amongst whom he was glad to discover the face of Mateo, though its symmetry had been spoiled by a cutlas-cut, extending from under his right eye to the left corner of his mouth, entirely severing the end of his nose. The captain of the Maraposa was kept a few moments waiting, and then, under a strong guard, they were all carried to the Moro Castle, and lodged in its dungeons, were left to await their trial.

Mateo and the rest of the men were put in a cell together, Willis, for greater security, had been confined in a strong apartment alone.

It was the first time the slaver had ever been in prison, and the close, dank air, the gloom, the high, dull, cold, stone walls, the heavy fetters upon his limbs, the entire lack of any thing external to distract his thoughts from his situation, all together, produced a feeling of depression he had never known before.

Thus was he four days, with naught to while away the time but his own thoughts, and they brought any thing but comfort to his mind, for the past scenes of a misspent life were constantly presenting themselves with the vividness of a panorama.

His early youth, when a good and gentle boy he had listened to the kind admonitions of his excellent mother; then the loss of his sweet parent, throwing him amongst selfish and careless relations; his first steps in vice; then his desire to repent and reform; the cold looks and want of sympathy with which he had been met; and bitterly cursing the want of charity that had been so parsimonious of kindness, when a few soothing words would have established him in the road to rectitude, he looked at the darker deeds of the few last years, and the end to which they would soon bring him.

Harassed by such painful reflections, it was a relief when the jailor came to conduct him to trial, though he knew that with him the road would be short from the tribunal to the gallows.

He felt that his fate was sealed; he had mortified De Vere so much, by dismantling his vessel and killing so many of his men, besides wounding him in the duel, that he knew the Englishman’s influence would prevent his being treated with the least leniency, and that the utmost penalty of the law would be exacted. He lacked also that powerful friend, gold. Aware of the uncertain tenure one in his profession had of life, he squandered the immense sums he made as he got them, and he had not been allowed an opportunity of obtaining aid from his associates.

It was with a mind conscious of the worst, and prepared to bear it, that with a calm, determined countenance, and collected air, he was confronted with his judges.

The indictment was read, and the presiding judge asked him if he was “Guilty, or not guilty?”

“Guilty I am!” said Willis, “as who that hears me is not? but, that I am more worthy of condemnation than even you, my judges, or than the accuser, I deny! ’Tis true, I have been guilty of bringing negroes from Africa to this island. But wherein am I thereby more guilty than you? Do you not eagerly buy them as soon as landed; and so hold out the temptation to bring them? ’Tis also true, that on the high sea I did, with force and death, resist ‘her Britannic Majesty’s vessel.’ Were moral right to prevail for once, her captain would be in my situation; for by his intervention the slaves that I would have brought here, to live in comfort to a good old age, will now be condemned to hard and short lives, as apprentices, in Brazil. But what avails my talking! My life, I know, is forfeited! and I will not degrade myself by making useless efforts to save it.”

The counts in the indictment were all sustained. After a short consultation, he was adjudged to die. And standing up to hear his sentence, he found he was to be hung, the day after the morrow, to the fore-yard of his own vessel. He then was carried back to his dungeon.

After the captain had been sentenced, the rest of the crew were brought up for trial; but being all men of little notoriety, and pleading their necessity to obey the commands of Willis, and that when they had joined the Maraposa they did not know she was a slaver, they were all pardoned except Mateo, who was compelled to pay a fine.

De Vere, after the trial, returned home exultingly; the man that had caused him to be laughed at by the whole squadron, the one who had nearly killed him, and again came within an ace of capturing his brig, was about to be punished.

Clara was likewise glad to hear of Willis’s fate, for she hated him for wounding her betrothed.

But Don Manuel learned the result of the trial with sadness; he had tried to prevail upon De Vere not to prosecute, but the Englishman said it was impossible; his sense of justice, his oath and honor as an officer, all, he contended, compelled him to have the law enforced; he had even made an effort to influence the court, but found De Vere’s influence governed them all; he had not, however, given up all hope yet.

Well was it for the secret of Francisca’s heart that the sentence of Willis was conveyed to her in her own chamber, by the faithful duenna, for as soon as she heard the awful news she sunk senseless on the floor; swoon succeeded swoon for some time, but recovering, in a degree, her composure, her eye brightened and her cheek flushed, as if some happy idea had flashed across her mind, and leaving the room she sought her father.

It was the night after the day of the trial, the bells of the many churches had just ceased chiming ten, when the silence that reigned in the slaver’s cell was broken by the sound of a key grating in the lock of his door.

Surprised at having a visiter at so unusual an hour, Willis turned to see why he was disturbed, and was astonished to discover, as the door opened, by the light in the hands of the jailor, who remained in the passage, a female figure, closely enveloped in the folds of a large mantilla, glide into his dungeon. When within a few feet of Willis, the lady paused, and, save the convulsive motion of her breast, stood for a moment motionless. Then, slowly dropping the mantilla from about her face, she revealed to the startled gaze of the prisoner the features of Francisca, not as he had seen them, but pale as death, and thin, as if she had lately been very ill.

Willis was about to speak, but raising her finger as a sign for him to be silent, she said—

“Time is precious, Captain Willis, waste it not in inquiries or conjectures of the cause of my being here, but believe that I am deeply grateful for the life I owe you, and am desirous of repaying it in kind. Every exertion has been made without success by my father to procure your pardon, but my efforts have been more blessed. In two hours the turnkey, who has been bribed, will let you out; proceed to the nearest quay, where you will find all that is left of your crew, waiting for you in a boat; take them to your schooner, which is at anchor in the same place she was when you were brought here; the few men in charge of her have also been bought; and then to make your way out safely will have to depend upon yourself.”

Again Willis endeavored to speak, and express his thanks, but Francisca motioned him to hush.

“One moment more, and I must be gone. In this package,” she handed him a small bundle, apparently of paper, “you will find that which will be useful to you, if you get to sea. And praying that the blessed Virgin will protect you, I wish you God speed.”

She turned, and was going, but Willis seized her hand for an instant, and imprinting upon it a kiss, said, in a voice tremulous with emotion,

“The gratitude I feel, lady, after years shall prove;” and letting her hand go she vanished, and the door shutting, Willis was again in the dark.

Had it not been for the palpable evidence of the package, still in his hand, he would have thought the interview had been a dream; as it was, he could hardly convince himself it was aught else. So sudden had been the entrance of Francisca, she had looked so much an angel, so quickly vanished, that the two hours had elapsed before he was really certain he had not been only blest by a vision.

But the noiseless entry of the turnkey established the fact of mortal agency. And his fetters being unlocked, he once more was comparatively free. With deep feelings of gratitude and love toward Francisca, for her noble conduct, he left his cell, and in silence followed the unechoing steps of his former jailor, through many long passages and winding ways that led at last to a small private door, built in the outer wall, opening toward the harbor.

Here Willis paused, to bid his conductor good-night, and thank him. But the man said his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase if he were found there in the morning, and he had been paid well enough to leave his situation, and that if el SeÑor Capitan had no objection, he would go with him.

Willis of course could not have refused; but he had no such intention; and knowing the sparseness of his crew, was very glad thus to obtain another able-bodied man.

Much pleased at the captain’s ready acquiescence, the obliging turnkey locked the door on the outside, and put the key in his pocket, saying he never liked to part with old friends, and it might be of use to him again.

Quietly continuing their way, Willis and his quondam jailor walked out to the extremity of the nearest quay, where, in a boat laying close in the shadow of the wharf, he found Mateo and the remnant of his former crew. Brief, but cordial, were the greetings that passed between the slavers and their recovered captain, who, telling them how much he was indebted to his companion, stepped with him into the boat.

The night was dark; thick clouds of misty vapor obscuring the light of the stars; and every thing seemed to be slumbering; even the “alerto sentinelo” of the guards on the castle, and in the city, as it broke the silence, had a sleepy sound; and the safety with which the boat shoved off and pulled into the basin proved they were not very wide awake.

The tall masts of the Maraposa were dimly seen by Willis, as his boat, slowly and with muffled oars, made toward her, and the ebb tide was running out with all its force by the time he was alongside.

“Who comes there?” some one hailed, in a stifled voice, from the schooner, as the bow of the boat slightly touched her side.

“Friends!” was Willis’s reply, and with the celerity and noiseless tread of Indian warriors, he and his boat’s crew transferred themselves to the deck of the schooner.

As the foot of Willis once more pressed his own quarter-deck he seemed a new being, and felt as if he were already safe, but a glance at the dark pile of the Moro, and the black hull of the Scorpion, just visible in the haze behind him, reminded him of the dangers still to be overcome.

“Silently! silently, men! on your lives!” he whispered; “put the helm hard a-port, one of you! and, Mateo, forward and slip the cable.”

With the silence of men who knew their lives depended on their quietness, but with the dispatch engendered by long habit, his orders were obeyed, and the schooner forced from her anchor, swung round with the tide and began to drift toward the sea.

Not a word was spoken, or a foot moved; had the vessel been unmanned, until the castle had been passed, she could not have been more silent; unchallenged she floated on.

So excited and alert were the organs of her men, however, that when Willis ordered them to hoist away the jib, though speaking in a low tone, it caused them all to start. The jib greatly increased the Maraposa’s way through the water; and as soon as he thought it would not excite the attention of the sentinels at the castle, he hoisted his main-sail and fore-sail, loosing his square-sails quietly, the yards rose to their places, and in half an hour more the gallant schooner, under all sail, was standing out to sea. With a wild huzza, the crew gave vent to their feelings, and Willis, rejoiced to be again at liberty, and in safety, could not help joining them.

Upon examining the state of his vessel, which he did at once, he was gratified to find every thing undisturbed in the hold—all the provisions and water were still in her—the powder had not even been removed from the magazine, and the only things missing were the schooner’s papers.

His crew, indeed, instead of numbering fifty men, as it had, now only mustered ten beside himself—Mateo, and his six companions, with the two men who had been in charge of the Maraposa, and the turnkey. Though too few to fight with, they were amply sufficient to manage the vessel.

The course he intended ultimately to pursue Willis had not yet decided. The first and most imperative object was to get beyond the reach of pursuit; and leaving Mateo in charge of the deck, with directions to steer to the eastward, and to call him if he saw a sail, he descended to the cabin, to reflect on the eventful changes of the last few hours, and think about his future line of conduct.

The first thing that attracted his attention, when he entered the cabin, was a small, strong wooden box, well secured with cords, setting on the table. Never having seen it before, and curious to know why it was so carefully fastened, he approached the table, and with surprise discovered the box was directed to “Captain Willis, of the Maraposa.” Hastily undoing the rope that bound it, and lifting the lid, he found the box full of Spanish doubloons, and a note, likewise endorsed with his name, lying on the top of them. Opening it, he read—

“Sir,—Having in vain endeavored to find some other method by which I could testify the gratitude I feel to the preserver of my beloved Francisca, I hope you will accept of the enclosed contents, as a slight evidence of the obligation I feel; and sincerely desiring it may prove useful, I have the honor to be,

“Very respectfully,

“Manuel Velasquez.”