the decks with squashy flaps.
A bare-footed, bare-armed fellow, holding a bundle of brass-hilted
cutlasses under his arm, had lost himself in the contemplation of my
person.

"Where are you bound to?" I inquired at large, and everybody showed a
friendly alacrity in answer.

"Havana." "Havana, sir." "Havana's our next port. Aye, Havana."

The deck rang with modulations of the name.

I heard a loud, "Alas," sighed out behind me. A distracted, stricken
voice repeated twice in Spanish, "Oh, my greatness; oh, my greatness."
Then, shiveringly, in a tone of profound self-communion, "I have a
greatly parched throat," it said. Harshly jovial voices answered:

"Stow your lingo and come before the captain. Step along."

A prisoner, conducted aft, stalked reluctantly into the light between
two short, bustling sailors. Dishevelled black hair like a damaged
peruke, mournful, yellow face, enormous stag's eyes straining down on
me. I recognized Manuel-del-Popolo. At the same moment he sprang back,
shrieking, "This is a miracle of the devil--of the devil."

The sailors fell to tugging at his arms savagely, asking, "What's come
to you?" and, after a short struggle that shook his tatters and his
raven locks tempestuously like a gust of wind, he submitted to be walked
up repeating:

"Is it you, Senor? Is it you? Is it _you?_"

One of his shoulders was bare from neck to elbow; at every step one of
his knees and part of a lean thigh protruded their nakedness through a
large rent; a strip of grimy, blood-stained linen, torn right down to
the waist, dangled solemnly in front of his legs. There was a horrible
raw patch amongst the roots of his hair just above his temple; there was
blood in his nostrils, the stamp of excessive anguish on his features, a
sort of guarded despair in his eye. His voice sank while he said again,
twice:

"Is it you? Is it you?" And then, for the last time, "Is it you?" he
repeated in a whisper.

The seamen formed a wide ring, and, looking at me, he talked to himself
confidentially.

"Escaped--the _Inglez!_ Then thou art doomed, Domingo. Domingo, thou art
doomed. Dom... Senor!"

The change of tone, his effort to extend his hands towards me, surprised
us all. I looked away.

"Hold hard! Hold him, mate!"

"Senor, condescend to behold my downfall. I am led here to the
slaughter, Senor! To the slaughter, Senor! Pity! Grace! Mercy! And
only a short while ago--behold. Slaughter... I... Manuel. Senor, I a