e
rest of us out of this here floatin' hell, as, thanks be to God
Almighty, you have, I do suppose."

"You are right, lad, we have," answered George, cheerily. "And who may
you be?" he continued, a slight twang of his Devonshire dialect creeping
into his speech in his excitement.

"I? Why I be Joe Cary, to Plymouth; and I was took a year ago at San
Juan de Ulua, along wi' some others, when we put in there, under Admiral
Hawkins, to refit. We've--"

"Tell me, quick, man," interrupted George. "Do you know anything of the
whereabouts of a Mr Hubert Saint Leger, who was with Captain Drake in
that affair?"

"Do I know anything about Mr Saint Leger?" repeated Cary. "Ay, sure I
do. Why, he's one o' us here aboard this galley. 'Twas he that--Hi!
Mr Saint Leger--Mr Saint Leger--what's come to 'e? Here be a vine
brave Devonshire lad askin' about 'e. He's for'ard, sir, on the
larboard side, the fourth bench ahead o' this here one that I be sittin'
on."

There was no response to Cary's call, so George quickly turned and,
striding along the gang-plank, reached the fourth bench, upon which sat
three men, the middle one of which was supporting the senseless form of
his neighbour nearest the gang-plank. Peering down, in the semi-
darkness, George beheld in the senseless one a lean, muscular figure,
his naked body brown with long exposure to the sun and weather, covered,
as were the rest, with a growth of short hairs and, also as were the
rest, with innumerable long cicatrices, some white and evidently the
result of wounds inflicted long ago, but most of them of comparatively
recent date, showing how mercilessly the boatswains were in the habit of
plying their whips. But in the case of the man whom George was then
gazing upon, those more or less ancient scars were almost obliterated by
the blood which was still oozing from some thirty or more long slashes
across the back, shoulders, loins and arms of the senseless one, whose
features were almost hidden by a great, unkempt black beard and
moustache already touched with grey, as was the touzled mop of black
hair upon his head. Yet, through it all, as George's eyes grew
accustomed to the twilight gloom of the place, he was able to recognise
the features of his brother Hubert, obscured as they were with hair,
dirt, and sweat.

"Is he dead?" he demanded of the man who was supporting him.

"Nay, senor, I think not," answered the man. "I believe he has but
swooned under