the
hand of the man who under other circumstances might be wielding the
sceptre of that empire on which the sun never sets. Instead of a crown
he wore the genuine old Highland bonnet--not that modern innovation, the
military feather-bonnet. In face this descendant of royalty was an
unmistakable Stuart, with the characteristic aquiline nose, and a proud
dignity of expression. He might have sat for the portrait of Charles the
Martyr-King, by Vandyck, in Windsor. He was a convinced and earnest
supporter of the claims of Carlos Septimo, whom he regarded as a cousin,
and a sort of modern counterpart of the young Chevalier, the "darling
Charlie" of Jacobite minstrelsy. He received us with the hospitality of
his nation, and we had a long chat as we paced the deck briskly, the
Count discussing the prospects of the rising, and then verging off into
gay anecdotes of his military career in Austria, and inquiries after
mutual acquaintances in London. By-and-by Captain Travers made his
appearance, a tall weather-beaten navigator in orthodox naval dress,
with a glass in his eye. He bowed severely to the Stuart, who as coldly
returned his salute. It was easy to perceive that there was a restraint
in the demeanour of the men on both sides; but there was a tacit
armistice for the occasion. I heard afterwards that they did not talk to
each other, except on strict matters of duty, and when taking their
short walks on deck, one confined himself religiously to the larboard,
the other to the starboard. Travers took me in tow, while the alert
Count with his quick manner strode to and fro with Leader, and kept up a
jerky fire of conversation nearly all to himself, occasionally twirling
his peaked beard. Travers and I lolled over the bulwarks, and laughed
and sampled the contents of an aqua-vitae bottle, "Special Jury" whisky
from Ireland, and I learned that this ill-assorted pair had been
sharing some close hazards on their audacious cruiser.

A few days previously they had been chased by _El Aspirante_, a Spanish
gun-boat, which gave them eight shots. One caught them on the port
quarter, and shivered some timbers, but effected no more serious damage.

"I wish we had only an Armstrong twenty-four pounder close handy," said
the mate, "and we'd have saved them 'ere dons the price of a coffin, I'd
take my davy!"

From what I saw of the seamen, I think this was no empty boast. Some of
them had served with one Captain Semmes on a certain craft ca