ose, the red stone is well earned already."

Another minute and they were gone.

Having crossed the bridge, which was instantly hoisted again, Leonard
and Otter avoided observation by creeping back towards the water-gate
as they had come--that is, behind the shelter of the shed. Emerging from
this, they ran a few yards till they were opposite the gate, then walked
leisurely across the open space, a distance of fifty paces or more, to
the thatched hut where the sale of slaves was carried on.

There was nobody in this hut, but looking between the posts upon which
it was supported, they could see by the light of the moon, now growing
momentarily clearer, that a great and uproarious concourse of people was
gathered beyond in front of the verandah of the Nest itself.

"Come on, Otter," whispered Leonard, "we must go among these gentry.
Watch me closely, do what I do, keep your weapons ready, and if it comes
to blows, get behind my back and fight like a fiend. Above all, don't be
taken prisoner."

Leonard spoke calmly, but his heart was in his mouth, and his sensations
were such as must have been known to Daniel when he went into the lions'
den, for, as in the case of the prophet, he felt that nothing short of
a special Providence could save them. They were round the shed now,
and immediately in front of them was a mixed gathering of
desperadoes--Portuguese, Arabs, Bastards, and black men of various
tribes--such as Leonard had never seen in all his experience.

Villainy and greed were written on every countenance; it was a crew of
human demons, and an extensive one. These wretches, most of whom had
already drunk too freely and were drinking more, stood with their backs
to them, looking towards the verandah of the Nest. On the steps of
this verandah, surrounded by a choice group of companions, all of them
gaudily dressed, a man was standing whom Leonard would have had no
difficulty in identifying as the Dom Pereira, even without Otter's
warning whisper of "See! The Yellow Devil!"

This remarkable person demands some description as he stood in glory
that night, at the apex and, though he knew it not, the conclusion of
his long career of infamy. He was old, perhaps seventy, his hair was
white and venerable-looking, and his person obese. His black eyes
were small, cunning, cold, and bright, and they had the peculiarity
of avoiding the face of any person with whom he chanced to be in
conversation, at least when that person