u.

Oh, Paul! what a deceived man you are!

And while you are doing all this, just turn your eyes out to the calm
spot off Montego Bay, where that leaky old brigantine is bobbing about.
The dirty, surly _capitano_ kicking and beating the hands from taffrail
to bowsprit, particularly one great tall fellow, without a hat, and but
a few dry thin hairs to shield his skull from the scorching sun; cursing
him, as he puffs a cigarette, for being the most idle scoundrel of a
skulk on board! But he--the scoundrel!--laughing with a hollow laugh up
the sleeve of his filthy shirt, with never a dollar in his belt or an
extra pair of trowsers in the forecastle, with bare feet, and still,
cold eyes, now turned to green--eating nasty jerked beef and drinking
putrid water--never sleeping for vermin--kicked and cuffed about the
decks.

But yet he smiled with a devilish satisfaction, Paul, for he has escaped
_you_, and was bound to St. Jago de Cuba! From there he would
charter--steal, perhaps--a small boat, and run over to the Doce Leguas
Cays, where there were ten thousand pounds in mildewed gold!--if nobody
had discovered it, which was not probable--and he--the scoundrel!--would
gather it up in bags, and slink away to some other part of the world.

You must be very quick, Captain Brand, for the leaky brigantine does not
sail so fast as the "Centipede," and your ancient compadre, Don Ignacio,
is just out of prison. His old, fat, banana wife is very sorry for it,
but that's none of your business.

And you, Doctor Paul! don't you pity that flying, dirty wretch, with his
mutilated hand, and soul-beseeching gaze out of those greenish frozen
eyes, where a ray of mercy never entered, but whose icy lids fairly
crack as your shadow stamps across them?

No, not a ray of pity or mercy for the infamous villain; not even a
twitch of the little finger of his bloody, mutilated white hand! No, not
the faintest hope of pity! He shall die in such torments as even a
pirate never devoted a victim.

But you are worn out, Darcantel; your prey has escaped you. The people
think you mad, as you are, for revenge; and though your stride is the
same, and your frame still as nervous as a galvanized corpse, yet flesh
and blood can not stand it. Go on board the "Monongahela," and talk to
that true friend whose counsels you have ever listened to since you were
rocking in your cradle; or take that noble, gallant youth in your arms
and console him--for he needs