in Brazil by cracking your skull."

San Benavides, hearing the names of the two ports, understood exactly
why the young Englishman was making such a strenuous protest. He moved
nearer, laying an ostentatious hand on the sword that clanked
everlastingly at his heels. He had never been taught, it seemed, that
a man who can use his fists commands a readier weapon than a sword in
its scabbard. Hozier eyed him. There was no love lost between them.
For a fraction of a second San Benavides was in a position of real
peril.

Then Dom Corria said coldly:

"No interference, I pray you, Senhor Adjudante. Kindly withdraw."

His tone was eminently official. San Benavides saluted and stepped
back. The dark scar on De Sylva's forehead had grown a shade lighter,
but there was no other visible sign of anger in his face, and his
luminous eyes peered steadily into Hozier's.

"Let me understand!" he said. "You hold my life as forfeit if any
mischance befalls Miss Yorke?"

"Yes."

"I accept that. Of course, you no longer challenge my direction of
affairs?"

"I am no match for you in argument, senhor, but I do want you to
believe that I shall keep my part of the compact."

Coke, familiar with De Sylva's resources as a debater, and by no means
unwilling to see Hozier "taken down a peg," as he phrased it; eager,
too, to witness the Brazilian officer's discomfiture if the second mate
"handed it to him," thought it was time to assert himself.

"I'm goin' to 'ave a nap," he announced. "Either you or Watts must
take 'old. W'ich is it to be?"

"No need to ask Mr. Hozier any such question," said the suave Dom
Corria. "You can trust him implicitly. He is with us now--to the
death. Captain San Benavides, a word with you."

"South a bit," repeated the skipper. "Call me at two bells in the
second dog."

He was turning to leave the bridge with the Brazilians when a cheery
voice came from a gangway beneath.

"Yah, yah, mine frent--that's the proper lubricant. I wouldn't give
you tuppence a dozen for your bloomin' lager. Well, just a freshener.
Thanks. Ik danky shun!"

"You spik Tcherman vare goot," was the reply.

"Talk a little of all sorts. Used to sing a Jarman song once. What
was that you was a-hummin' in your cabin? Nice chune. I've a musical
ear meself."

Someone sang a verse in a subdued baritone, tremulous with sentiment.
The melody was haunting, the words almost pathetic under the conditions
of life o