the opportunity? It was a
puzzling question. To speak--in a whisper or otherwise--was not to be
thought of. Detection would follow almost certainly. The dumb alphabet
would have been splendid, though dangerous, but neither he nor Hester
understood it. Signs might do. He would try signs, though he had never
tried them before. What then? Did not "Never venture, never win,"
"Faint heart never won," etcetera, and a host of similar proverbs assure
him that a midshipman, of all men, should "never say die."

A few minutes more gave him the chance. Again the mouthpiece fell, but
this time it dropped on the folds of the Moor's dress, and in another
minute steady breathing told that Ben-Ahmed was in the land of Nod--if
not of dreams.

A sort of lightning change took place in the expressions of the young
people. Hester's face beamed with intelligence. Foster's blazed with
mute interrogation. The little maid clasped her little hands, gazed
upwards anxiously, looked at the painter entreatingly, and glanced at
the Moor dubiously.

Foster tried hard to talk to her "only with his eyes." He even added
some amazing motions of the lips which were meant to convey--"What's the
matter with you?" but they conveyed nothing, for Hester only shook her
head and looked miserable.

A mild choke at that moment caused the maid to fall into statuesque
composure, and the painter to put his frowning head tremendously to one
side as he stepped back in order to make quite sure that the last touch
was really equal, if not superior, to Michael Angelo himself!

The Moor resumed his mouthpiece with a suspicious glance at both slaves,
and Foster, with the air of a man who feels that Michael was fairly
overthrown, stepped forward to continue his work. Truly, if Peter the
Great had been there at the time he might have felt that he also was
fairly eclipsed in his own particular line!

Foster now became desperate, and his active mind began to rush wildly
about in quest of useful ideas, while his steady hand pursued its labour
until the Moor smoked himself into another slumber.

Availing himself of the renewed opportunity, the middy wrapped a small
piece of pencil in a little bit of paper, and, with the reckless daring
of a man who had boarded a pirate single-handed, flung it at his
lady-love.

His aim was true--as that of a midshipman should be. The little bomb
struck Hester on the nose and fell into her lap. She unrolled it
quickly, and