s still a spark of delicacy. Though his
gratitude has given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to the
level of that ruffianism around him.

While the carousal is thus carried on within the cave, without, the
overcast sky begins to discharge itself. Lightning forks and flashes
athwart the firmament; thunder rolls reverberating along the cliffs; a
strong wind sweeps them; the rain pouring down in torrents.

It is a tropic storm--short-lived, lasting scarce half-an-hour.

But, while on, it lashes the sea into fury, driving the breakers upon
the beach, where the beat has been left loosely moored.

In the reflux of the ebbing tide, this is set afloat and carried away
seaward. Driven then upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to
pieces, when the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away
over the foam-crested billows.

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

TWO TARQUINS.

It is after midnight. A calm has succeeded the storm; and silence
reigns around the cove where the pirates have put in. The seabirds have
returned to their perches on the cliff, and now sit noiselessly--save an
occasional angry scream from the osprey, as a whip-poor-will, or some
other plumed plunderer of the night, flits past his place of repose,
near enough to wake the tyrant of the sea-shore, and excite his jealous
rage.

Other sounds are the dull boom of the outside breakers, and the lighter
ripple of the tidal wave washing over a strand rich in shells.

Now and then, a _manatee_, raising its bristled snout above the surf,
gives out a low prolonged wail, like the moan of some creature in mortal
agony.

But there is no human voice now. The ruffians have ended their
carousal. Their profane songs, ribald jests, and drunken cachinations,
inharmoniously mingling with the soft monotone of the sea, have ceased
to be heard. They lie astretch along the cavern floor, its hollow
aisles echoing back their snores and stertorous breathing.

Still they are not all asleep, nor all within the cavern. Two are
outside, sauntering along the shadow of the cliff. As the moon has also
gone down, it is too dark to distinguish their faces. Still, there is
light enough reflected from the luminous surface of the sea to show that
neither is in sailor garb, but the habiliments of landsmen--this the
national costume of Spanish California. On their heads are _sombreros_
of ample brim; wide trousers--_cahoneras_--flap loose around their
ankles; while