ber, "that puff is but a
precursor of the wind that is to follow, and I must get the sails off
the brig."

Taking off his cap politely, the captain turned to his work, while, with
a ceremonious salute, Dom Maxara offered his arm to his daughter to
conduct her below.

"Good night, gentlemen, we shall meet again in the morning," said the
noble. A pressure of the hand, a low "Good night," a silvery toned
voice repeating the word, and Captain Hughes found himself alone, gazing
over the bulwarks into the blue sea, and thinking.

Thinking of Isabel, of course. Then she was not rich, and he was glad
of it. But why should he be glad? for he was not rich himself, and
beyond a few hundreds a year and his pay, he had nothing to boast of.
What on earth did Dona Isabel's position matter to him? A fair wind and
the brig would spread her wings. A few days and the party would
separate at the Cape, in all probability never to meet again. She was
of an ancient race, the blood of the Guzmans mantled in that blush.
Well, he, too, was of old Welsh blood, and could count kith and kin up
to the days when the Druids held their unholy rites and sacrifices on
the heights of Penmaenmawr and Snowdon, when Caswallon La Hir, his
ancestor, wandered through the forests of Caerleon and Bodysgallen, clad
in his mantle of skins. But what was that to him, and what had he to do
with the blood of the Guzmans? He would think of other matters.

Again his thoughts wandered, and, as he gazed into the blue ocean, he
called up a picture of another land. The lofty rugged mountains of
Snowdonia, the iron-bound coast, washed by the waves of the Irish
Channel, the ebbing and flowing waters of the Menai Straits, a house
which had stood the wear and tear of ages, embowered in its trees near
the beautiful Conway. Would Dona Isabel--pshaw!

"Take a pull at the larboard braces, let fly the fore and main royal
halyards. In with the canvas, my lads. Starboard the helm," shouted
the captain, as the breeze from the south struck the brig, filling her
remaining canvas, and making her heel over, as she gradually gathered
way. "Steady! so!" and the bubbles began to glide by the vessel's side,
the noise of the water slapping up against her bows, and the rattle of
the blocks and tackle, as the canvas filled, and everything drawing, the
"Halcyon," close hauled, on a taut bowline, stood her course as near as
possible.

Gradually the wind freshened, and when Hughes