and taller, and coated like a wolf.

As I have tried to describe her she stood amid the men and the tangle of
the beach; a shape majestical and yet (as we drew closer) slight and
forlorn. The present cause of her gestures we made out to be a
dark-skinned fellow whom two of Saint Aubyn's men held prisoner with his
arms trussed behind him. On her other hand were gathered the rest of
the Portuguese, very sullen and with dark looks whenever she turned from
them to Saint Aubyn and from their language to the English. He, I could
see, was perplexed, and stood fingering his beard: but his face
brightened as he came a step to meet my Master.

"Ha!" said he, "you can help us, Milliton. You speak the Portuguese, I
believe?" (For my master was known to speak most of the languages of
Europe, having caught them up in his youth when his father's madness
forced him abroad. And I myself, who had accompanied him so far as
Venice, could pick my way in the _lingua Franca_.) "This fellow"--
pointing at the prisoner--"has just drawn a knife on the lady here; and
indeed would have killed her, but for this hound of hers. My fellows
have him tight and safe, as you see: but I was thinking by your leave to
lodge him with you, yours being the nearest house for the safe keeping
of such. But the plague is," says he, "there seems to be more in the
business than I can fathom: for one half of these drenched villains take
the man's part, while scarce one of them seems too well disposed towards
the lady: although to my knowledge she has worked more than any ten of
them in salving the cargo. And heaven help me if I can understand a
word of their chatter!"

My Master lifted his cap to her; and she lifted her eyes to him, but
never a word did she utter, though but a moment since she had been using
excellent English. Only she stood, slight and helpless and (I swear)
most pitiful, as one saying, "Here is my judge. I am content."

My Master turned to the prisoner and questioned him in the Portuguese.
But the fellow (a man taller than the rest and passably
straight-looking) would confess nothing but that his name was Gil Perez
of Lagos, the boatswain of the wrecked ship. Questioned of the assault,
he shook his head merely and shrugged his shoulders. His face was
white: it seemed to me unaccountably, until glancing down I took note of
a torn wound above his right knee on the inside, where the hound's teeth
had fastened.

"But who is the captain