ch seemed to mean a great deal.
But after all such certificates might mean very little--such a
reputation might be no real guarantee. The sailors had been engaged by
the captain, and their ruddy faces and thoroughly British appearence,
the exquisite cleanliness which they maintained in every detail of the
yacht, had seemed to Mr. Smithson the perfection of seamanship.

But it was not the less true that the cleanest of yachts, with deck of
spotless whiteness, sails of unsullied purity, brasses shining and
sparkling like gold fresh from the goldsmith's, might be spiked upon a
rock, or might founder on a sand-bank, or heel over under too much
canvas. Mr. Smithson was inclined to suspect any proposition of
Montesma's; yet he was not the less disturbed in mind by the assertion.

The day wore on, and the yacht sailed merrily over a summer sea. Mr.
Smithson fidgeted about the deck uneasily, watching every movement of
the sailors. No boat could be sailing better, as it seemed to him; but
in such weather and over such waters any boat must needs go easily. It
was in the blackness of night, amidst the fury of the storm, that
Montesma's opinion had been formed. Smithson began to think that his
friend was right. The sailors had honest countenances, but they looked
horribly stupid. Could men with such vacuous grins, such an air of
imbecile good-nature, be capable of acting wisely in any terrible
crisis?--could they have nerve and readiness, quickness, decision, all
those grand qualites which are needed by the seaman who has to contend
with the fury of the elements?

Mr. Smithson and his guests had breakfasted too late for the possibility
of luncheon. They were in Cowes Roads by one o'clock. A fleet of yachts
had arrived during their absence, and the scene was full of life and
gaiety. Lady Lesbia held a _levee_ at the afternoon tea, and had a crowd
of her old admirers around her--adorers whose presence in no wise
disturbed Horace Smithson's peace. He would have been content that his
wife should go through life with a herd of such worshippers following in
her footsteps. He knew the aimless innocence, the almost infantine
simplicity of the typical Johnnie, Chappie, _Muscadin, Petit Creve,
Gommeux_--call him by what name you will. From these he feared no evil.
But in that one follower who gave no outward token of his worship he
dreaded peril. It was Montesma he watched, while dragoons with
close-cropped hair, and imbecile youths with h