A narrow canal that pierces an out-of-the-way corner of old Rotterdam. MediÆval houses—narrow, lofty, terminating in quaint, pointed gables—overhang the sluggish waters. It is only frequented by the picturesque native canal boats, with their lofty masts and varnished oak sides, so marvellously clean, for all their dirty work. In this quiet spot, with its old-world, decaying look, it is difficult to realise that close at hand are the busy quays of the Boompjees, crowded with vessels from all parts of the world, noisy with the haste of modern commerce.

It is a bit of Rotterdam that does not change. The British tourist, unless he has lost himself, never explores the narrow alleys that lead down to the slimy water—a gloomy, dead quarter of the city, pervaded by a smell that is ancient and fish-like and something worse.

It was a sultry August midday. No breath of air stirred the water of the canal, which seemed to be fermenting under the fierce sunshine, and foul gases bubbled up on its surface.

Only one of the many vessels moored along the quay flew a foreign flag. The blue ensign of Great Britain hung motionless from the mizzen of the yacht Petrel.

On the deck was a sturdy little man in baggy trousers, who, despite the languid influence of the day, was employed in polishing the brass-work on the vessel with an extraordinary energy. This was Willem, the pilot's cousin, who had entered into Carew's service, and who had, with Dutch diligence, set himself the task of scrubbing the yacht up to his high standard of Dutch smartness as quickly as possible.

The owner—by right of undisputed possession—was below, looking over some charts of the South Atlantic, which he had just purchased. The solicitor had been making all his preparations as rapidly but as quietly as possible. But little now remained to be done. So far, honest Willem was the only hand he had engaged; but he knew that he could easily ship as many men as he needed at a moment's notice in so large a seaport as Rotterdam. He told no one of his projected voyage across the Atlantic, knowing that to do so would at once attract attention to him; and he naturally dreaded that publicity should be given to his doings.

He showed himself in the streets as little as possible, and he always went forth to make his purchases in the early morning before English tourists were likely to be out of their beds. He had only been in port two days, but he was almost ready for sea. He had some tanks fitted into the cabin, so that he could carry sufficient water for a long voyage; he had filled all the lockers and bunks with a large quantity of tinned meats, biscuits, and other necessary stores; he had procured his charts; and all this had been done in the least conspicuous manner possible.

Though he had never before undertaken an ocean cruise of this magnitude, he knew what was requisite, and forgot nothing. There was no chronometer on board the yacht, and he could not afford to buy one; so, as his watch was not to be depended upon, he saw that he would have to navigate his vessel after the fashion of the good old days before chronometers were known. The ancient navigators carried with them their astrolabes—rough instruments, long since superseded by quadrants and sextants—which enabled them to find their latitude accurately enough. But having no timepieces, they were unable to ascertain their longitude by observation of the heavenly bodies, and had to rely on dead reckoning alone. So the mariner of old, after a long voyage across ocean currents of unknown speed and direction, was possibly many hundreds of miles out of his reckoning as regards longitude, though he knew his latitude to within a few miles.

Thus, supposing, for instance, he was bound for Barbadoes, he would sail boldly on until, according to his calculations, he was some few days' journey to the eastward of his port. Then he would steer for the exact latitude in which it lay, and follow that line of latitude till he reached his destination; which he was, of course, bound to do sooner or later. Moreover, it was his invariable custom to heave his vessel to every night while running down the latitude; as otherwise he might pass by the island without seeing it in the darkness, and lose himself entirely.

It was a slow method of navigation—not to say a risky one. But Carew would not have to encounter so many difficulties as the sailors of old; for ocean currents are better understood in these days, and the opportunities of speaking vessels at sea and ascertaining the exact longitude from them are very frequent.

Carew had spent all the money he had found on board the yacht, and there were still some necessary purchases to be made. The most expensive of the articles yet to be bought was a dinghy, to replace the one that had been lost. This very morning he had found his way to the Mont de PiÉtÉ and pawned everything he could well spare: Allen's watch and chain, the rifle, and one of the two binocular glasses. With that easy forgetfulness which was an attribute of his conscience, he had by this time almost come to believe that the barrister's yacht and fortune were rightfully his. The sum he thus raised was not a large one; but he calculated that it would enable him to meet every expense, though he would have to put to sea almost penniless, if not quite so.

While Willem was still busy on deck a tall, good-looking gentleman, with an honest but shrewd eye and tawny beard, came along the quay and stood in front of the yacht, inspecting her critically for a few moments.

"Is the owner on board?" he inquired of the sailor in Dutch.

"The English captain is in his cabin, sir," replied the little man in a solemn, nasal drawl.

"I should like to see him. Will you give him my card?"

Willem, taking the card, descended to the cabin. "Von man here for see you, captain," he said in his broken English.

Carew started. "A man to see me? What sort of man?" he asked.

"Him a gentleman man, for him has von tall black hat. Here was his paper," and he handed Carew the card.

The solicitor felt the blood forsake his heart. Some English acquaintance had found him out. He looked at the card with dread; then a sigh of relief escaped him; the name was certainly Dutch—Hoogendyk.

Carew went on deck and politely invited his visitor to come on board. Mynheer Hoogendyk stepped down from the quay, and introduced himself in excellent English.

"I am a resident of Rotterdam," he said, "and I am a leading member of our Yacht Club. I have come to inform you that, with your permission, we shall be highly delighted to make our English confrÈre an honorary member of the club during his stay in our city."

"I am very grateful to the club for the honour they confer upon me, and shall gladly avail myself of the privilege," replied the lawyer, who, as he spoke, made a resolve never to put his foot inside the club premises, but to ship his crew and sail from Rotterdam without delay. It was dangerous for him to stay longer, now that his retreat had been discovered.

"I only heard of you by accident yesterday," said the visitor, who, unlike most of his countrymen, was garrulous and inquisitive, though a good fellow. "Why have you picked up a berth in this dirty, out-of-the-way hole?"

"It is picturesque and quiet."

"And filthy and unhealthy. We must move you to a better spot. There is a capital berth just in front of the English church. You'll see lots of your countrymen there. How many hands have you on board? I see you have shipped one Dutchman."

"My two men were drunken ruffians, and I discharged them."

"I will undertake to get you a good crew of my countrymen if you like. I suppose you are going to cruise about our coasts. Where are you going to from here?"

"To Amsterdam," replied Carew, who was on tenterhooks of impatience. He felt how dangerous this man would be with his gossiping habits.

"And now, sir," said Mynheer Hoogendyk, drawing out a pocket-book and pencil, "I will take your name and enter it on the club books."

"Here is my card." Carew handed to him one of the barrister's cards.

"'Mr. Arthur Allen, Fountain Court, Temple!'" read the visitor. "Ah, you live in the Temple! I know it well. Are you a lawyer by chance?"

"I am a barrister."

"Ah! How delightful! We are chips of the same block, Mr. Allen. I, too, am a barrister, in practice in Rotterdam. Both yachtsmen, both advocates, what a bond of friendship there should be between us! You must come and see my yacht—such a pretty little schuyt—and also our law courts."

They sat together in the Petrel's cabin, and the Dutch advocate commenced to question the solicitor on English law, comparing it with that in force in his own country. Carew was hugely bored and weary of his visitor's chatter, but did his best to be civil.

"And, by the way," cried the Dutchman at last, "there is a trial now proceeding which I am sure would be of the greatest interest to you; for you say that the criminal law is your particular line."

"What is it about?" asked the solicitor indifferently.

"Piracy: the seizure of a vessel and the murder of her officers by the crew."

All Carew's indifference vanished now. He let the cigar he was smoking drop from his fingers, and, turning his head, he looked at his visitor's face with a steady, fierce look, as of some wild beast that awaits the attack of another, and has strung all its nerves to resist its foe to the death. The Dutchman, whose eyes were directed downwards at that moment, did not observe that look.

The slumbering conscience had been awakened again with a rude start by those words. For a moment Carew lost his head and fancied that this garrulous man was a police detective who knew everything and had been playing with his prisoner all this while. Then he looked at his visitor's face again, and felt reassured, realising the absurdity of such a supposition.

The advocate, quite unconscious of the perturbation he had caused, continued—

"Yes, it was a terrible story. Perhaps you remember reading in the papers some months ago of an act of piracy in the Spanish Main. A vessel trading from CuraÇoa under the Dutch flag was seized by her crew—a lot of Spanish and Mulatto cut-throats. They murdered the captain, the mate, and a few honest Dutch sailors who stood by their officers. Then the mutineers sailed for Puerto Cabello, where, as usual, there was a civil war, with the intention of selling the vessel to the revolutionary party, which was in need of transports. When they arrived there the revolution was over; the Government seized the vessel, but the ruffians contrived to escape up country."

"I remember all that well," said Carew. "The story made a great noise at the time."

"Now it happens," said the advocate, "that three of these ruffians shipped as sailors in a South American port on board of a vessel bound for Rotterdam. One day a Dutch sailor from CuraÇoa enters a drinking shop on the Boompjees, and sees, sitting down at a table over a bottle of schiedam, three men whom he recognises as part of the crew of the ill-fated Vrouw Elisa. He calls in the police, and now these gentlemen are being tried for their lives."

"To be hanged if found guilty, I suppose?"

"I hope so; but I am afraid that they will be acquitted. Everyone is morally sure of their guilt; but, unfortunately, the evidence for the prosecution has been so confused and contradictory that their identity has not been satisfactorily settled. The counsel for the defence is a very able fellow too."

"What countrymen are they?" inquired Carew.

"Two are Spaniards and one is a Frenchman. I think the Frenchman was the ringleader of the mutineers, for he looks a clever rascal. And now, Mr. Allen, the trial will probably conclude this afternoon. The court is very crowded, but I can get you in. Come along, and you will be able to compare the Dutch and English criminal procedure."

Carew would have preferred to decline the invitation, but in ordinary politeness found it difficult to do so; and he accompanied the native lawyer—who undoubtedly possessed the gift of the gab, if no other qualifications for his profession—to the law courts.

Carew felt anything but easy in his mind as he walked through the main streets of the town, at this hour of the day crowded with a motley throng, including not a few of his own countrymen, bent on pleasure or business. Pretending to listen to his companion's unceasing gossip, the solicitor looked anxiously about him as he went, fearing at each step to see some well-known face from Fleet Street. The glaring sunshine had rejoiced his soul when he was out on the lonely seas, but in the hives of his fellow-men he shrank from the all-searching light, and experienced guilt's instinct for safe obscurity.

But he saw no one he knew on his way, and was much relieved when Mr. Hoogendyk procured for him, after some difficulty, a seat in a remote and dark corner of the court, where he could see and hear, himself unseen.

Carew soon became so interested in watching the faces of the three men who were being tried for their lives that, in spite of the advocate's whispered suggestions on the subject, he paid no attention to the procedure, and did not endeavour to compare the Dutch and English legal systems. He took no interest in law now; he was indeed heartily sick of it, and hoped that he had washed his hands of it for ever.

Of the three men only one had a really unprepossessing and murderous countenance. A murderer looks much like any other man, though people who take their ideas from waxwork shows think otherwise. That this should be so is obvious enough. A few only of murderers have homicidal proclivities as a part of their nature, and these indeed may betray their character in their physiognomy. All the other passions and vices of disposition can, under certain circumstances, compel the man who has the greatest horror of bloodshed to kill a fellow-being. In the large majority of cases, murder is not a tendency but the result of other tendencies.

But one of the three prisoners had indeed a villainous appearance. He was a big, clumsily built Spaniard from the Basque countries, with a heavy, animal face and an evil mouth, indicative of the stupid cruelty of some savage beast.

The other Spaniard was a short, stout man, with a jovial face and an enormous black moustache, which he twirled occasionally with a complete nonchalance. There was nothing of the murderer in his appearance.

Neither of these two men exhibited any signs of fear. The first faced death with the dogged pluck of an animal, the second with a somewhat higher sort of courage.

The third man alone, the Frenchman, showed that he was suffering the agonies of acute terror. The little Spaniard, observing this, nodded to him now and then, smiling maliciously, and the big man scowled at him with surly contempt. The Frenchman's face was quite white, and the perspiration poured down it in streams; his lips quivered, and, holding on to the rail of the dock with hands tightly clenched, he listened with intense attention to every word of judge or advocate.

The features of this man, though distorted with fear, were delicate and refined. His handsome face was more like that of a ProvenÇal gentleman than of a rough sailor. He was a well-knit man of about thirty, with the blue-black hair of the South. Over his fine and expressive eyes were bushy black brows, which almost met on his forehead, giving him a somewhat sinister appearance.

Carew found himself taking a strange, morbid interest in watching these three faces. In some way he identified himself with the prisoners. Had not they committed a crime only in degree differing from his own? The day might come when he too would be tried for his life. He wondered whether he would then look like the dogged Basque, the cowardly Frenchman, or the other. He had always flattered himself that he did not fear death; but how difficult to know how he would face it until his time came!

At last, amid complete silence, judgment was given. Carew could not understand the words, but he knew their import—

"Not guilty!"

The spectators groaned and hissed when they heard this decision. The Frenchman fell back fainting. The big Spaniard glanced boldly round the court with a ferocious scowl, and he made an involuntary motion with his right hand, as if he held his knife in it and was longing to rip up a few of his enemies. The little man smiled, and bowed pleasantly to the court, after the manner of an actor who is acknowledging his tribute of applause.