the day before, but more those of the night, have
revealed a state of things that suggest unpleasant reflections,
especially to the new-made lieutenant. He cannot cast out of his mind
the sinister impression made upon it by the discovery that Don Francisco
De Lara--his rival for the hand of Carmen Montijo--is no other than the
notorious "Frank Lara," the keeper of a monte table in the saloon "El
Dorado!" Now that he knows it, the knowledge afflicts him, to the
laceration of his heart. No wonder at the formality of that letter
which he addressed to Don Gregorio, or the insinuation conveyed by it.
Nor strange the cold compliments with which it was concluded; far
stranger had they been warm.

Among other unpleasant thoughts which the young officers have, on being
so soon summoned away, is that of leaving matters unsettled with Messrs.
De Lara and Calderon. Not that they have any longer either design or
desire to stand before such cut-throats in a duel, nor any shame in
shunning it. Their last encounter with the scoundrels would absolve
them from all stigma or reproach for refusing to fight them--even were
there time and opportunity. So, they need have no fear that their
honour will suffer, or that any one will apply to them the opprobrious
epithet--_lache_. Indeed, they have not, and their only regret is at
not being able to spend another hour in San Francisco in order that they
might look up the foiled assassins, and give them into the custody of
the police. But then that would lead to a difficulty which had better
be avoided--the necessity of leaving their ship, and staying to
prosecute an action in courts where the guilty criminal is quite as
likely to be favoured as the innocent prosecutor. It is not to be
thought of, and long before the frigate's anchor is lifted, they cease
thinking of it.

Crozier's last act before leaving port is to write the letter to Don
Gregorio; Cadwallader's to carry it ashore, and deliver it to Harry
Blew. Then, in less than twenty minutes after the returned midshipman
sets foot on the frigate's deck, the order is issued for her sails to be
sheeted home, the canvas hanging crumpled from her yards is drawn taut,
the anchor hauled apeak, and the huge leviathan, obedient to her helm
held in strong hands, is brought round, with head towards the Golden
Gate.

The wind catches her spread sails, bellies them out, and in five minutes
more, with the British flag floating proudly over her