until the event
befell that marred what was promising to be the pleasantest stage of his
lordship's voyage.

The marplot was the mad-dog Spanish Admiral, whom they encountered on
the second day out, when halfway across the Gulf of Gonaves. The Captain
of the Royal Mary was not disposed to be intimidated even when Don
Miguel opened fire on him. Observing the Spaniard's plentiful seaboard
towering high above the water and offering him so splendid a mark,
the Englishman was moved to scorn. If this Don who flew the banner of
Castile wanted a fight, the Royal Mary was just the ship to oblige him.
It may be that he was justified of his gallant confidence, and that
he would that day have put an end to the wild career of Don Miguel de
Espinosa, but that a lucky shot from the Milagrosa got among some powder
stored in his forecastle, and blew up half his ship almost before the
fight had started. How the powder came there will never now be known,
and the gallant Captain himself did not survive to enquire into it.

Before the men of the Royal Mary had recovered from their consternation,
their captain killed and a third of their number destroyed with him, the
ship yawing and rocking helplessly in a crippled state, the Spaniards
boarded her.

In the Captain's cabin under the poop, to which Miss Bishop had been
conducted for safety, Lord Julian was seeking to comfort and encourage
her, with assurances that all would yet be well, at the very moment when
Don Miguel was stepping aboard. Lord Julian himself was none so steady,
and his face was undoubtedly pale. Not that he was by any means a
coward. But this cooped-up fighting on an unknown element in a thing of
wood that might at any moment founder under his feet into the depths
of ocean was disturbing to one who could be brave enough ashore.
Fortunately Miss Bishop did not appear to be in desperate need of the
poor comfort he was in case to offer. Certainly she, too, was pale, and
her hazel eyes may have looked a little larger than usual. But she had
herself well in hand. Half sitting, half leaning on the Captain's table,
she preserved her courage sufficiently to seek to calm the octoroon
waiting-woman who was grovelling at her feet in a state of terror.

And then the cabin-door flew open, and Don Miguel himself, tall,
sunburned, and aquiline of face, strode in. Lord Julian span round, to
face him, and clapped a hand to his sword.

The Spaniard was brisk and to the point.

"Don'