.

"A mere waste of ammunition," murmured Rosco, with a contemptuous curl
of his lip, as he rose. "But the next may be better aimed, so I'll bid
you good-bye, Redford!"

Descending into the ravine, he was soon safe from the iron messengers of
death, of which the enraged Redford sent another group ashore before
finally bidding the island farewell.

Now, it so happened that Zeppa was ascending the Sugar-loaf mountain on
its other side, when all this cannonading was going on. He was
naturally surprised at such unwonted sounds, and, remembering that
cannon implied ships, and that ships were necessary to deliverance from
his enforced exile, he naturally hastened his steps, and experienced an
unusual degree of excitement.

When he reached his favourite outlook--a ledge of flat land on the
southern face of the hill, partially covered with bushes--he saw the
pirate vessel sailing away from the island, and the smoke of her two
broadsides rising like two snowy cloudlets into the blue sky. At first
an expression of disappointment flitted across Zeppa's countenance, but
it quickly passed, leaving the usual air of childlike submission behind.
He sat down on a ledge of rock, and gazed long and wistfully at the
retreating vessel. Then, casting his eyes upwards to the blue vault, he
gave way to an impulse which had been growing upon him for some time--he
began to pray aloud.

It was while he was engaged in this act of devotion that Richard Rosco
came upon the scene.

At the first sound of the madman's deep voice, the pirate stopped and
listened with a feeling of superstitious dread which seemed to check the
very action of his heart--for, at the moment, a few bushes concealed his
old enemy from his sight. Stepping cautiously forward, he could see
through the interlacing boughs without himself being seen; and then the
blood forsook his visage, and his limbs trembled as if he had been a
paralysed old man.

Could the man before him, in tattered garments, with the dishevelled
mass of flowing, curly, iron-grey hair, with the long, heavy beard and
moustache, the hollow cheeks, and the wonderfully solemn eyes--could
_that_ be Zeppa? It seemed impossible, yet there was no mistaking the
well known and still handsome features, or the massive, sinewy frame--
still less was it possible to doubt the deep, sonorous voice. But
then--Zeppa had been seen on Ratinga Island, and the description given
of him by those who had seen him had be