ave rushed to the rescue of the
bearded Frenchman if Peter's powerful grip on his shoulder had not
restrained him.

"Don't be a fool, Geo'ge," he whispered. "Remember, we _must_ submit!"

Fortunately for George, the guards around were too much interested in
watching the struggle to observe his state of mind, and it is doubtful
whether he would have been held back even by the negro if his attention
had not at the moment been attracted by a tall man who came on the scene
just then with another gang of slaves.

One glance sufficed to tell who the tall man was. Hester Sommers's
portrait had been a true one--tall, handsome, strong; and even in the
haggard, worn, and profoundly sad face, there shone a little of the
"sweetness" which his daughter had emphasised. There were also the
large grey eyes, the Roman nose, the iron-grey hair, moustache, and
beard, and the large mouth, although the "smile" had fled from the face
and the "lovingness" from the eyes. Foster was so sure of the man that,
as he drew near to the place where he stood, he stepped forward and
whispered "Sommers."

The man started and turned pale as he looked keenly at our hero's face.

"No time to explain," said the middy quickly. "Hester is well and
_safe_! See you again! Hope on!"

"What are you saying there?" thundered one of the drivers in Arabic.

"What you say to dat feller? you raskil! you white slabe! Come 'long
home!" cried Peter the Great, seizing Foster by the collar and dragging
him forcibly away, at the same time administering several kicks so
violent that his entire frame seemed to be dislocated, while the
janissaries burst into a laugh at the big negro's seeming fury.

"Oh! Geo'ge, Geo'ge," continued Peter, as he dragged the middy along,
shaking him from time to time, "you'll be de deaf ob me, an' ob yourself
too, if you don't larn to _submit_. An' see, too, what a hyperkrite you
make me! I's 'bliged to kick hard, or dey wouldn't b'lieve me in
arnist."

"Well, well, Peter," returned our hero, who at once understood his
friend's ruse to disarm suspicion, and get him away safely, "you need
not call yourself a hypocrite this time, at all events, for your kicks
and shakings have been uncommonly real--much too real for comfort."

"Didn't I say I was _'bleeged_ to do it?" retorted Peter, with a pout
that might have emulated that of his wife on the occasion of their
engagement. "D'you s'pose dem raskils don' know a real kick from a