o him, he no longer entertains. The
trusting Chilian skipper would scarce give credit to such an atrocious
scheme. And if he did, in all likelihood it would result in his taking
some rash step, which would but quicken their action, and bring sooner
on the fatal catastrophe.

No; 'twill never do to make him acquainted with the danger, great as it
is.

Nor yet should Don Gregorio know of it. The terrible secret must be
kept from both, and carefully. Either of them aware of it, and in an
hour after, all might be over--the tragedy enacted, and its victims
consigned to the sea--himself, Harry Blew, being one of them!

Still crouching under the sail, he trembles, as in fancy he conjures up
a fearful scene; vividly, as though the reality were before his eyes.
In the midst of the open ocean, or close to land, the tragedy to be
enacted will be all the same. The girls seized; the captain, Don
Gregorio, the cook, and himself, shot down, or poniarded; after that,
the gold dragged out of the lockers; the vessel scuttled, and sunk; a
boat alone left to carry the pirates ashore, with their spoils and
captives!

Contemplating such a scene--even though only in imagination--it is not
strange that the _Condor's_ first officer feels a shivering throughout
his frame. He feels it in every fibre. And reflection fails to give
relief; since it suggests to him no plan for saving himself. On the
contrary, the more he dwells on it, the more is he sensible of the
danger--sees it in all its stark-naked reality. Against such odds a
conflict would be hopeless. It could only end in death to all who have
been singled out, himself perhaps the first.

For a time he stands in silent cogitation, with despair almost
paralysing his heart. He is unable to think steadily, or clearly.
Doubtful, unfeasible schemes shape themselves in his mind; idle thoughts
flit across his brain; all the while wild tumultuous emotions coursing
through his soul.

At length, and after prolonged reflection, he seems to have made a
resolve. As his countenance is in shadow, its expression cannot be
seen; but, judging by the words that are muttered by his lips, it is one
which should be unworthy of a British sailor--in short, that of a
_traitor_.

For his soliloquy seems to show that he has yielded to craven fear--
intends surrendering up the sacred trust reposed in him, and along with
it his honour!

The words are:

"I must cast my lot in along wi' them. It's