ore about it; only hope we may
some day lay hands on him."

"Ah! if I ever do that. With my arms around him, I once saved his
worthless life. Let me but get him in my embrace again, and he'll have
a hug that'll squeeze the last breath out of his body!"

"The chance may come yet, and with the whole scoundrelly crew. What
brutes they must have been! According to Don Gregorio's account, they
were of all nations, and the worst sort of each. The negro says the
same. Among them four that spoke Spanish, and appeared to be Spaniards,
or Spanish-Americans. Suppose we pay a visit to the forecastle, and see
if we can find any record of their names. It might be of use
hereafter."

"By all means!" asserts the lieutenant; "let us." They proceed towards
the fore-deck in silence, their countenances showing a nervous
apprehension. For there is a thought in their hearts, which neither has
yet made known to the other--blacker, and more bitter, than even the
thought of Harry Blew's treason.

Unspoken, they carry it into the forecastle; but they are not many
minutes there, before seeing what brings it out, without either saying a
word.

A bunk--the most conspicuous of the two tiers--is explored first. They
turn out of it papers of various sorts: some letters, several numbers of
an old newspaper, and a pack of Spanish playing-cards--all pictured.
But among them is one of a different sort--a white one, with a name
printed upon it.

A visiting card--but whose?

As Crozier picks it up, and reads the name, his blood curdles, the hair
crisping on his head:

"Mr Edward Crozier; H.B.M. Frigate Crusader."

His own!

He does not need to be told how the card came there. Too well remembers
he when, where, and to whom he gave it--to Don Francisco De Lara on the
day of their encounter.

Thrusting it into his pocket, he clutches at the letters, and looks at
their superscription--"_Don Francisco de Lara_!"

Opening, he rapidly reads them one after another. His hands holding
them shake as with a palsy; while in his eyes there is a look of keenest
apprehension. For he fears that, subscribed to some, he will find
another name--that of Carmen Montijo! If so, farewell to all faith in
human kind. Harry Blew's ingratitude has destroyed his belief in man.
A letter from the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo to the gambler Frank
Lara, will alike wither his confidence in woman.

With eager eyes, and lips compressed, he continues the p