ive up the chase and think us not worth the trouble.

"Jacopo," he said to an old sailor who was rowing in the bow, and who
already was getting exhausted from the exertion, "do you lay in your
oar and come aft. I will take your place."

At the end of an hour the galley was little more than a quarter of a
mile away.

"We had better stop," the captain said. "We have no chance of getting
away, and the longer the chase the more furious they will be. What do
you think, signor?"

"I agree with you," Francis replied. "We have done all that we could.
There is no use in rowing longer."

The oars fell motionless in the water, and a few minutes later the long
galley came rushing up by their side.

"A fine row you have given us, you dogs!" a man shouted angrily as she
came alongside. "If you haven't something on board that will pay us for
the chase we have had, it will be the worse for you. What boat is
that?"

"It is the Naxos, and belongs to Messer Polani of Venice. We are bound
to Corfu, and bear letters from the padrone to his agent there. We have
no cargo on board."

"The letters, perhaps, may be worth more than any cargo such a boat
would carry. So come on board, and let us see what the excellent Polani
says to his agent. Now, make haste all of you, or it will be the worse
for you."

It was useless hesitating. The captain, Francis, and the crew stepped
on board the galley.

"Just look round her," the captain said to one of his sailors. "If
there is anything worth taking, take it, and then knock a hole in her
bottom with your axe."

Francis, as he stepped on board the galley, looked round at the crew.
They were not Genoese, as he had expected, but a mixture of ruffians
from all the ports in the Mediterranean, as he saw at once by their
costumes. Some were Greeks from the islands, some Smyrniots, Moors, and
Spaniards; but the Moors predominated, nearly half the crew belonging
to that race.

Then he looked at the captain, who was eagerly perusing the documents
the captain had handed him. As his eye fell upon him, Francis started,
for he recognized at once the man whose designs he had twice thwarted,
Ruggiero Mocenigo, and felt that he was in deadly peril.

After reading the merchant's communication to his agent, Ruggiero
opened the letter addressed to Maria. He had read but a few lines when
he suddenly looked up, and then, with an expression of savage pleasure
in his face, stepped up to Francis.

"So, Messer