footing upon it. There was one
Spaniard in particular who appeared to possess the gift of ubiquity; he
seemed to be in all parts of the ship at the same time, notwithstanding
the crowded state of the confined space wherein the fight was raging,
and in him George speedily recognised the truculent-looking individual
who had led the pirates on the eventful night of the _Aurora's_ capture,
and who had so brutally ill-used poor Bowen on the morning of the sale
in the square at Havana. There could be no possible doubt as to his
identity. There was the same ferocious cast of countenance, the same
mahogany-brown skin, even the same filthy red handkerchief--now more
filthy than ever--bound about his ragged locks, apparently the same
broad-brimmed straw hat, in short, every mark of identification; nothing
was wanting. This individual dashed from point to point, apparently by
a mere effort of his will, encouraging here, chiding there, and helping
everywhere. The mere fact of his presence, the mere sound of his voice,
appeared to endue the pirates with renewed life and courage, and George
speedily saw that there would be little hope of victory until this man
could be placed _hors de combat_. He therefore pressed in toward him,
plying his cutlass vigorously with one hand, and laying manfully about
him with the butt of his empty pistol with the other, and calling upon
the fellow by every despicable epithet he could think of to turn and
meet him. He had very nearly reached him--there were only some
half-a-dozen people between the two--when another voice, that of Bowen,
was heard, and the next instant the chief mate, his eyes literally
blazing with fury, appeared, forcing his way into the thickest of the
throng. With the strength of a madman he seized and dashed aside all
who ventured to bar his path, and in a single moment, so it seemed to
George, forced himself within reach of his especial enemy.

"At last--at last--you bloodthirsty scoundrel--you white-livered
coward--you who were not ashamed to strike a chained man--at last we
meet again, as I told you we should!--and the time has come for me to
pay off part of the debt I owe you--no, you don't,"--skilfully guarding
a savage down-stroke from the Spaniard's cutlass, "and take that," he
added, launching out a terrific blow with his left fist, catching the
Spaniard fairly between the eyes, and felling him to the deck senseless,
as neatly as a butcher fells an ox. In another mo