find, are rather more active than your London flunkeys. We dine in an hour’s time, and a mouthful of air will give you an appetite.”
I wanted no second bidding to get an instalment of my liberty, at any rate, and went out into the garden. The rarest tropical plants were planted outside the deep verandahs, and long feathery palm-trees waved lazily in the breeze. The end of the garden terrace abutted on a lofty cliff, and the blue tropical sky was reflected in the boundless ocean which lay beneath. A magnificent schooner, evidently of English build, was at anchor a few hundred yards from the shore, with which exception not a trace of shipping was to be seen.
As I was returning towards the house, the sound of singing attracted my attention. The voice of the singer was low and soft, and there was a plaintive tone in the music which brought tears to my eyes. I crept quietly up to the window from which the music proceeded, and beheld one of the most beautiful creatures that mortal eyes ever lighted on. Her fair auburn hair fell over a snowy neck and shoulders; her features were oval and regular, but there was an expression of melancholy in the face which was sad to contemplate. I hesitated for a moment whether to go in or not; but modesty was never a failing of the Bluejacket family, so I boldly entered the apartment. She did not see me at first, so I had an opportunity of contemplating her appearance. She was dressed in a loose robe of white satin slashed with gold, which extended as far as the knee, and wore—what shall I call them? “pants,” no, that’s a Yankee word; “bags,” no, that’s vulgar—I am afraid, therefore, I must say trousers, after the Turkish fashion, which fell over a pair of embroidered slippers which encased two fairy-like feet. She started and blushed at my approach.
“Sing! O, pray sing for ever!” I exclaimed, in a rhapsody.
“I cannot sing for ever,” she replied: “angels may do that, but it is not in my power.”
“You are an angel already,” I cried.
She smiled and bowed slightly at the compliment, and, snatching up her banjo, she struck up the touching air of “Hoop-de-doo-dum-doo.” Seizing a set of bones which Pompey had left in the room, I accompanied her in her song. My thoughts were recalled to home by the old melody; and when it was finished I put my face in my hands and burst into tears.
“Where did you learn that beautiful song?” I inquired, as soon as my voice returned.
“In Whitechapel!” she answered with much emotion. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I can, I can!” I said.
At this moment Don Skittleballos entered the room. He started, and frowned at me.
“I had hoped,” he said, “to have had the pleasure of introducing you to the Princess Swanka; but I see that you have introduced yourselves. Come, dinner is ready. Stay,” he said, “I may as well introduce you formally, for fear of accidents. Mr. Bluejacket, allow me to introduce you to La Principessa Swanka—my fiancée. We shall be married the day after to-morrow, and you can act as my best man.”
The princess looked imploringly at me; and I fancied I read her thoughts. “Is it too late?” I whispered to her, as I handed her into the drawing-room.
“Faint heart never won fair woman,” she replied, tremulously. “I am an Englishwoman: save me, dear Mr. Bluejacket!”
I inwardly vowed to do so, or die; and my fate for death or love was sealed.
CHAPTER III.
A grand dinner off borrowed plate.—The Don opens his heart.—A conspiracy.
The dinner was served in the most luxurious style. Plate, both gold and silver, covered the table, and a tribe of black servants attended on us. As I was leisurely eating my soup with what appetite I had, under the double influence of sickness and love, I was startled to observe the crest of the Duchess of Bijou on my spoon; and, on looking round the table, I saw the same heraldic device on the pieces of plate. The Don’s quick eye caught mine.
“You are looking at the crests on the plate. They are a few trifles from the Duchess of Bijou when I was in London. Most of my plate consists of reminiscences of old friends.”
I couldn’t unravel this strange riddle, as I knew the duchess was not in the habit of giving away her plate. As soon as dinner was over, the princess left us, and wine was brought. The Don warmed into confidence, and finding me not very conversational, said:
“Bluejacket, you are puzzled to know who and what I am, and I don’t mind telling you; as if you try to get away before I give you leave, you won’t live to tell the tale, and you may tell it to whom you please after you are at liberty, for I shall be far from here soon after your departure. I am the Don Whiskerando Skittleballos who created such a sensation in London two years ago. My father was a Spaniard, and my mother was an Englishwoman: the former was hung for piracy, and the latter died of his ill treatment. My sole object in visiting England was to get a clipper schooner built at Southampton, you saw her lying off the cliffs, and a good sailor she is, and she has shown her heels to a pretty many of your cruisers. By the bye, that ship which you riddled, and tried to take, was only an old hulk which we turned adrift, just to deceive your squadron, and this dodge paid pretty well, as old Tartar must have blazed half his powder into her. I was on board my schooner at the time, taking advantage of the darkness of the weather to run a cargo of niggers—don’t start, my calling is apostolic, and I am a fisher of men—which accounts for your being picked up. To return to my story: as I was acquainted with the interior of many English gaols, I thought I might as well see the inside of some of your great mansions; so, money being plentiful, and all trace of my antecedents wiped out, I went to Mivart’s. The ‘Morning Post’ announced ‘the arrival of Don Whiskerando Skittleballos, who had visited England for the purpose of having a yacht built for the Brazilian Club, of which he is commodore.’ As you may suppose, hundreds of cards were left for me, and I