thful energy. The two elder men could not help
regarding him with a mingled feeling of envy and compassion.

"Did you tell Brimmer yet?" said Keene, with animation.

"I haven't had time," hesitated Markham. "The fact is, Brimmer, I think
of going with Keene on this expedition."

"Indeed!" said Brimmer superciliously.

"Yes," said Markham, coloring slightly. "You see, we've got news. Tell
him, Dick."

"The Storm Cloud got in yesterday from Valparaiso and Central American
ports," said Keene, with glowing cheeks. "I boarded her, as usual, last
night, for information. The mate says there is a story of a man picked
up crazy, in an open fishing-boat, somewhere off the peninsula, and
brought into hospital at San Juan last August. He recovered enough
lately to tell his story and claim to be Captain Bunker of the
Excelsior, whose crew mutinied and ran her ashore in a fog. But the
boat in which he was picked up was a Mexican fishing-boat, and there
was something revolutionary and political about the story, so that
the authorities detained him. The consul has just been informed of the
circumstances, and has taken the matter in hand."

"It's a queer story," said Brimmer, gazing from the one to the other,
"and I will look into it also to-morrow. If it is true," he added
slowly, "I will go with you."

Richard Keene extended his hand impulsively to his two elders.

"You'll excuse me for saying it, Brimmer--and you, too, Markham--but
this is just what I've been looking forward to. Not but what I'd have
found Nell without your assistance; but you see, boys, it DID look
mighty mean in me to make more fuss about a sister than you would for
your wives! But now that it's all settled"--

"We'll go to supper," said Miss Montgomery theatrically, appearing at
the door. "Dick will give me his arm."

CHAPTER II.

THE MOURNERS AT TODOS SANTOS.

There was a breath of spring in the soft morning air of Todos Santos--a
breath so subtle and odorous that it penetrated the veil of fog beyond
the bay, and for a moment lingered on the deck of a passing steamer like
an arresting memory. But only for an instant; the Ometepe, bound from
San Francisco to San Juan del Norte, with its four seekers of the
Excelsior, rolled and plunged on its way unconsciously.

Within the bay and over the restful pueblo still dwelt the golden haze
of its perpetual summer; the two towers of the old Mission church seemed
to dissolve softly into the mellow up