ever more; till she can hear her own
wedding-hymn re-echoed in the tones of every girl who loves, and sees
her own wedding-torch re-lighted in the eyes of every bride."

"You would not have me marry her?" asked blunt, practical Amyas.

"God knows what I would have--I know not; I see neither your path nor
my own--no, not after weeks and months of prayer. All things beyond are
wrapped in mist; and what will be, I know not, save that whatever else
is wrong, mercy at least is right."

"I'd sail to-morrow, if I could. As for marrying her, mother--her birth,
mind me--"

"Ah, boy, boy! Are you God, to visit the sins of the parents upon the
children?"

"Not that. I don't mean that; but I mean this, that she is half a
Spaniard, mother; and I cannot!--Her blood may be as blue as King
Philip's own, but it is Spanish still! I cannot bear the thought that my
children should have in their veins one drop of that poison."

"Amyas! Amyas!" interrupted she, "is this not, too, visiting the
parents' sins on the children?"

"Not a whit; it is common sense,--she must have the taint of their
bloodthirsty humor. She has it--I have seen it in her again and again.
I have told you, have I not? Can I forget the look of her eyes as
she stood over that galleon's captain, with the smoking knife in her
hand.--Ugh! And she is not tamed yet, as you can see, and never will
be:--not that I care, except for her own sake, poor thing!"

"Cruel boy! to impute as a blame to the poor child, not only the errors
of her training, but the very madness of her love!"

"Of her love?"

"Of what else, blind buzzard? From the moment that you told me the story
of that captain's death, I knew what was in her heart--and thus it is
that you requite her for having saved your life!"

"Umph! that is one word too much, mother. If you don't want to send me
crazy, don't put the thing on the score of gratitude or duty. As it is,
I can hardly speak civilly to her (God forgive me!) when I recollect
that she belongs to the crew who murdered him"--and he pointed to the
picture, and Mrs. Leigh shuddered as he did so.

"You feel it! You know you feel it, tender-hearted, forgiving angel as
you are; and what do you think I must feel?"

"Oh, my son, my son!" cried she, wringing her hands, "if I be wretch
enough to give place to the devil for a moment, does that give you a
right to entertain and cherish him thus day by day?"

"I should cherish him with a vengeance, if I brou