ir work, he saw nothing unusual
in the circumstance. Six armed soldiers were at once turned out, and
with these obedient, unquestioning slaves he marched down the tortuous
streets to the Bagnio.

The ring procured him admittance at once, and the same talisman
converted the head jailer into an obsequious servant.

"I have come for one of your slaves," said the middy, walking smartly
into the court where most of the miserable creatures had already
forgotten their wretchedness in the profound sleep of the weary. The
tramp of the soldiers on the stone pavement and the clang of their arms
awoke some of them. "The name of the man I want is Hugh Sommers."

On hearing this one of the slaves was observed to reach out his hand and
shake another slave who still slumbered.

"Rouse up, Sommers! You are wanted, my poor friend."

"What say you, Laronde?" exclaimed the merchant, starting up and rubbing
his eyes.

"Get up and follow me," said Foster, in a stern commanding tone.

"And who are _you_, that orders me as if I were a dog?" fiercely
returned Sommers, who, since the day of the unsuccessful mutiny, had
again become desperate, and was in consequence heavily ironed.

"The Dey of Algiers gives the order through me," replied Foster,
pointing to the soldiers, "and it will be your highest wisdom to obey
without question. Knock off his irons," he added, turning abruptly to
the chief jailer.

The air of insolent authority which our `hipperkritical' middy assumed
was so effective that even Sommers was slightly overawed. While the
irons were being removed, the unhappy Frenchman, Edouard Laronde, sought
to console him.

"I told you it would soon come to this," he said in English. "I only
wish I was going to die with you."

"Knock off this man's irons also," said the middy, to whom a new idea
had suddenly occurred, and who was glad to find that his altered costume
and bearing proved such a complete disguise that his old comrade in
sorrow did not recognise him.

"I thought," said the jailer, "that you said only one slave was wanted."

"I say _two_ slaves are wanted," growled the midshipman, with a look so
fierce that the jailer promptly ordered the removal of Laronde's
fetters.

"Did I not often tell you," muttered Hugh Sommers, "that your unguarded
tongue would bring you to grief?"

"It matters not. I submit, and am ready," returned the Frenchman in a
sad tone. "If it were not for my poor wife and child, the worl