ure you that
you have no further cause for apprehension; the privateer has been
captured and this vessel retaken by the boats of his Britannic majesty's
schooner _Dolphin_, under my command; my men are now busy, on deck and
on board the brigantine, securing the prisoners; and it will be my
duty--Good heavens--it cannot be--and yet it surely _is_--my father!"

I had, whilst speaking, been gradually advancing nearer to the table,
and consequently more directly into the full light of the cabin lamps;
and my speech had been interrupted, and the above startled exclamation
wrung from me, by seeing one of the occupants of the sofas rise with
difficulty to his feet to gaze with an expression of intense eagerness
in my direction. My attention had thus, naturally, been attracted
toward him, and I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses when,
in the worn and somewhat haggard features of the gazer, I recognised the
well-remembered lineaments of my father. Yet so it was, there could be
no mistake about it; for as I sprang toward him, he ejaculated my name,
"Lionel," and, overcome with emotion, reeled and fell, bound hand and
foot as he was, into my arms. As I embraced him our lips met, and I
then received almost the first paternal kiss of which I had ever been
conscious.

I tenderly reseated him on the sofa, and, throwing myself on my knees
before him, busied myself in casting loose the lashings which confined
his feet, glad to have so good an excuse for bowing my head, and thus
concealing the tears of emotion which sprang to my eyes. My father was
even more overcome than I was. I felt his hot tears falling upon my
hands as he bent over me; and it was not until I had completely released
him that he regained composure enough to ejaculate, as he fervently
grasped my hand:

"Thank God--oh! thank God for this most unexpected and welcome meeting,
my precious boy, my own Lionel; and still more for your opportune
arrival. You and your brave fellows made known your presence just in
time to prevent what in another moment would have become a perfect
pandemonium of violence, and probably of murder also. You are welcome,
my son, most welcome, not only to me, but also, I am sure, to everyone
else in this cabin."

This assurance was heartily echoed by everybody present, with the
exception of the unhappy lady in whose arms lay the wounded child, and
she was evidently too much absorbed in her own grief to notice or be
conscious