saw that the shot had been fired by a
war-steamer which was entering the bay.

"Ha! the `Firefly;' good!" exclaimed the Governor, with a gratified
look; "this will put it all right."

He said nothing more, but left the room hastily. It may however be as
well to explain that his remark had reference to the mutual affection
which he was well aware existed between his daughter and the gallant
Lieutenant Lindsay. He had not, indeed, the most remote intention of
permitting Maraquita to wed the penniless officer, but he had no
objection whatever to their flirting as much as they pleased; and he
readily perceived that nothing would be more likely to take the
Senhorina's thoughts off her lost maid than the presence of her lover.

There was a bower in a secluded corner of the Governor Letotti's garden,
a very charming bower indeed, in which Lieutenant Lindsay had been wont
at times when duty to the Queen of England permitted, to hold sweet
converse with the "queen of his soul." What that converse was it
neither becomes us to say nor the reader to inquire. Perhaps it had
reference to astronomy, perchance to domestic economy. At all events it
was always eminently satisfactory to both parties engaged, save when the
Senhorina indulged in a little touch of waywardness, and sent the poor
officer back to his ship with a heavy heart, for the express purpose of
teaching him the extent of her power and the value of her favour. She
overclouded him now and then, just to make him the more ardently long
for sunshine, and to convince him that in the highest sense of the word
he was a slave!

To this bower, then, the Senhorina returned with a sad heart and swollen
eyes, to indulge in vain regrets. Her sorrows had overwhelmed her to
such an extent that she failed to observe the `Firefly's' salute. It
was therefore with a look of genuine surprise and agitation that she
suddenly beheld Lieutenant Lindsay, who had availed himself of the first
free moment, striding up the little path that led to the bower.

"Maraquita!" he exclaimed, looking in amazement at the countenance of
his lady-love, which was what Norsemen style "begrutten."

But Maraquita was in no mood to be driven out of her humour, even by her
lover.

"I am miserable," she said with vehemence, clenching one of her little
fists as though she meditated an assault on the lieutenant--"utterly,
absolutely, inconsolably miserable."

If Lindsay had entertained any doubt regard