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Well, then, never!" exclaimed her husband, ab- that you ought to bring your professions and your ruptly, and, rising, he left the room. practice into more harmony."

The guests looked at each other. The General was a well-meaning, but rough man; thus might the glances be construed.

"My dear General, there are very few ladies, I believe, so widely known as myself for their unsparing exertions in favour of the poor."

"Ay," said the General, "you fine ladies have a way of your own in such matters. So long as your charity can vent itself in bazaars, where you hold the stalls, in balls, in private theatricals, in lotteries, there are none more charitable than yourselves. You don't

with the rarest veils on your heads; but as to unseen, unknown charity-as to obliging where the obligation bears no echo-Well, vanity, thy name is 'woman."" "Of course," said the Countess, "you have a type in your remembrance to whose perfection I cannot pretend to aspire."

The Count was fairly silenced, and, as usual on such occasions, beat a hasty retreat.

The Count retired to his own chamber, and sat at his desk, with the paper unfolded before him. Neither the style, the hand-writing, nor the orthography, were perfect; yet all were superior to what might have been expected from a person whose education had been neglected; nor was the letter couched in terms that be-dislike going begging for the poor from house to house, trayed a vulgar mind. It was an appeal of Pavel's. He represented how he had, in every respect, conformed to the General's desires-how he had never alluded, nor would even now allude, to the past; but that day's meeting had shown that the Count could not wash it out of his memory. Why not spare a being who had never offended the consciousness of being hated? Why not spare himself so detestable a sight? || Why not give him (Pavel) the means-the only boon The steward was triumphant. He had received two he had ever asked-not pecuniary, but legal, of quitting missions from Pavel, which he was fully aware would the domain-liberty to sell the small property which || chafe his high spirit to the uttermost, and which be, had devolved upon him? This was all he would ever of course, determined to execute in a manner most demand. He had been refused education-been refused || likely to produce that effect. The Countess, to spare every chance of bettering his moral condition-all he|| her beloved Casimir any chance of collision with the now asked was the power, not of making himself hap-|| paternal will, which she knew to be as inflexible as pier, but of suffering less. "Descend into your heart,' her son's stubbornness, was unconquerable, had held were the concluding words-" consult your own con- an interview with Duski, in which she had commisscience, and then deny me this request if you can." sioned him to forbid the young peasant Jakubski the The Count, crushing the letter in his hand to a ball, approach to the chateau, or its immediate vicinity, so flung it among his waste papers, then ringing the bell, long as the family should be on the estate. No reason ordered his steward to be called. for this contemptuous treatment did she assign. The steward transmitted the command of his master and mistress in a manner which seemed to make them both emanate from the former. Pavel listened with suppressed passion.

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"Duski," he said, "let the youth you pointed out to me this morning know that he is to send no more petitions here."

"Has he had the insolence?"

"That's no concern of yours-have the goodness to do my errand without comment."

Duski retired with a deep obeisance. "Wretched boy!" murmured the Count, as the door closed; and the rest of the day he was more morose than ever. When he entered the Countess's boudoir, he held an open letter in his hand-she was alone with Casimir.

"Well, Sophie," he said, "here is a petition that chiefly concerns you. It is from the daughter of an officer in your father's regiment-a Pole-a gentleman -at least so she says. She wishes her father, who has lost his reason, in consequence of a brain fever, to be placed in the lunatic asylum at Lemberg, and her brother at the free school, her work being by no means adequate to their care and maintenance."

"Oh, I'll send her a few florins," said the Countess, negligently.

"The Count is right," he said at length, with a bitter laugh-"quite right."

"Do these words imply a threat against our lord?" said Duski; but Pavel turned his back upon him, and left the hut.

"A bad son, a bad son," said old Jakubska, from her corner-" a bad everything. You can't think what I have to suffer from Pavel. He lays my food before me as one does before the brutes—he never opens his mind to me on any subject, and hardly ever speaks to me at all."

"Ay," said the steward, "he is a discontented, disaffected soul-we have our eye on him—he'll bring himself and you into trouble one day—but it's all your own fault. Why did you, against the express command of our lord, get him taught reading and writing? And then a precious example he has had in you, mother Jakubska-if you could see yourself with your watery

"It's weeping over my son that does it-I shall go blind with sorrow before long."

"But, my dear, she does not ask florins-she re-eyes!" presents herself to be the daughter of a gentleman. It is our interest, our protection, that she desires. She says she is obliged to pay guardians night and day for her "Ay, sorrow and brandy," said the steward. He father, and the boy grows up wild for want of proper was about to depart, but a sudden thought arrested training." his footsteps. "He, doubtless, takes from you the "Nonsense!" said the Countess, pettishly-"what I pension my lord allows you?"

"That," the old woman said, shaking her head, "would be nothing; but never a word of comfort can be got out of him-never a word, good, bad, or indifferent; and nobody," continued the gossip, "will come near me, and my limbs are too weak and too stiff now to carry me far, so that I am but a poor, lone body, abandoned like a dog in his kennel-if it wasn't for the drop of brandy that you speak of, master Duski, how could I ever keep my heart up?

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The steward treasured in his memory that portion of the widow's complaints which suited his own views. Indeed, he had only listened to them in order to extract from her something that might prove prejudicial to the object of his enmity. Nothing could be more groundless than the old woman's malicious insinuations. Far from losing anything by Pavel, to which she had a claim, she continually drained his own resources; but she had tact enough to perceive the version of story which was most pleasing to the steward.

"If I might humbly venture to suggest," continued the steward, "that woman wants no pension now— her son can manage the land his father and brothers left-when the late Countess granted it, her family was numerous and young-there are many on the estate more deserving

"Not another word, Duski," interrupted the Count, severely; "look to it that the pension be paid regularly, and in full."

"I believe," mentally ejaculated the steward, "that if the late Countess had chosen to dispose of Stanoiki by will to an utter stranger, the Count would yield possession. Well, I don't understand great folks-he looks pretty sharp after his money, too, on ordinary occasions, and clips my reckonings close enough, and he is not ashamed to lavish it on those worthless people." From that day forth, Pavel did not darken the prethecincts of the castle; but the young Count's pleasure in his future domains was much curtailed, by not having the savage-looking peasant to torment, and watch the effect of his dawning tyranny in his physiognomy. The visitors soon wearied of the monotony of the place, and departed, leaving the house more empty and more silent, much to the relief of the General, but greatly to the chagrin of his wife. At last autumn came, and with it a pretext for departure; for the Countess could never spend a winter away from the capital; and her husband, seeming to take no more pleasure in a téte à téte than herself, made no objection to the plan of removing to Lemberg.

A few days later, Duski was again in the Count's presence, with a large book under his arm, the domain register, on whose pages were noted down, in categorical order, the names of the vassals, and various details concerning them and their families, as well as the exact allotment of each, and a specification of the tithes, charges, and feudal services belonging to its tenure. Then followed observations on the more or less regularity of performance, a black cross marking the names of those who had attempted to pass off light weights of corn, grumbled at lending their cattle, or kept more than their lawful number, by which means they could lend their master their worst teams, and keep their best for their own use. There were, too, notices on the general character and behaviour of the several families, of course more or less favourable, according to the number and value of each peasant's voluntary contributions to the steward.

The Count, after looking over the most recent annotations, turned hastily the pages, as if in search of a name which he could not immediately find; at last, losing patience, he said hurriedly:----

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And that young man-that Jakubski-what of him?-what sort of character does he bear in the village?'

The very worst, my lord. He ill-treats the poor, old, bed-ridden woman, his mother, and takes from her all the money your Grace has been so good as to allow her. Moreover, he is averse to the discharge of his duties-it is next to impossible to extract the dues from him. He is a sulky, ill-tempered man-it could scarce be otherwise, son of such an old drunkard as his mother."

A shade of pain passed over the Count's countenance.

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The peasantry felt no regret when the travelling carriages were seen undergoing preparations for the journey. Their master had fulfilled none of their expectations; and they accused themselves of folly in ever having entertained them. They gazed in gloomy silence on the chariot containing the Count and Countess, each leaning back in a corner, their son sitting between them, as it rolled away from the chateau, followed by several britzkas with their suite. The Countess affected to sleep, to avoid being troubled with her husband's conversation, who, however, was wrapt in thought, whilst Casimir was assiduously emptying a large paper of bonbons, with which, despite the General's desires in that respect, his mother never failed to gratify her beloved Casimir.

This journey, how little satisfactory soever it might be to any of the parties concerned, was, to the great vexation of the Countess in particular, to be frequently repeated; but, as she said to some of her most intimate friends, "Every one in this world has a cross to bear," favourite expression with many people who hardly know what it is to have a cross in life. (To be continued.)

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A TALE OF THE MEXICAN GULF.

CHAPTER I.-GENEVIEVE.

Ir was daybreak, in the month of July, and during broke with a dull and heavy roar on a low and sandy a dead calm.

The waters of the Mexican Gulf heaved and swelled, as if eager once more to lash with fury all around them. Huge and long billows rose and fell, so gradually as to form waves nearly half a mile long, which came and

VOL. XVI.-NO. CLXXXVIII.

beach. A feeling of dread might well have come over the stoutest heart, as its possessor reflected on what those vast water-mountains might be when in anger-so calm, so slow, so solemn, and yet so terrible in repose.

The sky above was serene and blue; not a speck

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sullied its brightness, though, occasionally, a small, thin line of vapour seemed wafted to the westward.

In front lay the ocean, illimitable--a wide plain of waters, without end or horizon save where the sea itself seemed to raise itself up in a greenish bank to meet the blue ether, and where the rays of the rising sun appeared to expire in a faint flood of brightness, very different from the rich glow of the quarter of the heavens where the luminary was ascending.

The tops of the waves, catching the sun's rays, sparkled with myriad tears, more pellucid, more clear than those shed in joy by maiden while softly breathing to her first, “I love; " and a dim mist, which appeared to exist in the air, though without reality, seemed chased away by the effulgence of the light.

All this could be seen from the shores of a small island that lay between the greater one of Cuba and the mainland of America.

Small, well-wooded, lofty, and of an oval shape, this solitary spot of earth seemed wholly unserviceable to man. A low, sandy strand, of about two hundred yards in length, existed, it is true, on the side towards the wide ocean, but on every other it presented precipitous rocks, perfectly inaccessible. Even the exception appeared of very little avail to any attempting to land, for the beach, after running in about thirty or forty yards, ended at the foot of cliffs a hundred feet high, and perfectly sheer down, crowned at the summit with the cocoa-nut and all tropical trees, forming a rich mass of verdure. In the centre of the little bight the water ran close up to these lofty rocks, which, even to the eye, seemed to part and receive it in its bosom; but this was not matter of certainty on a cursory examination.

At the northern end of the cove, the land jutted out towards the sea in a kind of promontory, at the end of which the sea broke usually with great violence, while a rippling in the water, with its discoloured state, showed that for a long distance the rocks projected below the water. This shoal, marked "very dangerous" on all charts, was one reason why the island was almost wholly unvisited, and, as it seemed as it were formed to protect the spot, the sailors, with their rough imagery, called it the Devil's Isle.

But, at the hour of which we speak, it was not wholly uninhabited, for on the summit of the cliff, reclining beneath the shade both of tree and huge palm umbrella, was a young girl. She was lying in a grass hammock, her form resting within it, with one of her feet dangling on the ground; and, imparting occasionally a swinging motion to the bed, she seemed taking a siesta, but was, in reality, only lying there to gaze with an undefined feeling on the mighty maze of waters.

She was nineteen-in those climes not perfect youth, but perfect womanhood. She was of graceful form, though with some embonpoint-and with face so gentle, so soft, so innocent, one might have thought her some sleeping angel, who had paused an instant to sojourn upon earth. Fair, and of unmixed blood, she was an European; but she wore the costume rather of the south than the north, to which she appeared to belong. Genevieve had never seen other world than that island, that she could recollect-knew of no other existence, dreamt scarce of any, taking what she read in books as almost romance-and had never seen any other men than those who dwelt in that lone spot. And these men were pirates.

But Genevieve, daughter of a great robber of the high seas, a terrible and reckless man, had had for mo ther one who, forced to wed the pirate, had gained sufficient influence over him to make him spare his child even knowledge of the shame and disgrace of his calling. Alice was a good and pure woman. Against her wish she became the wife of the man who was the father of Genevieve; but his wife had proved a good and faithful partner, and the pirate loved her.

Genevieve was born. The mother at once removed to a delicious cabin built in the woods, apart from the habitations of the crew of the corsair, and never again || mixed with them. Her husband was captain, and feared by all his men, so strong, daring, vigorous, and undaunted was he; and he forbade all intrusion on his plantation, divided from the rest of the island on one side by a creek, on another by a steep and densely. wooded hill, and on the rest by the sea.

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Here she educated her daughter. Provided with books, a spinet, and some music of the times, she gave her a more sound education than she had received her. self. Daughter of a man of rank and fortune, borne away by the daring freebooter in days when the police of the seas was different from what it is now, she so taught her child, that she was fit to adorn any station, high or low. She could play music and make a dress, she could discourse learnedly on history, and yet attend to household duties, and while imbued with deep religious feelings, she yet loved, respected, adored her father, who, in his turn, doted on her. Her mother had left her in utter ignorance of her father's position. She believed him a petty monarch, with somewhat unruly subjects, carrying on war with surrounding island kings, and thus recruiting subjects and obtaining booty.

Her intelligence had purposely been left in the dark on this point, and her knowledge of history only more completely deceived her. She could see little difference between her father and the chiefs of other nations she read of, always occupied in attacking, and slaughtering, and pillaging their neighbours; save that her father never took from his own people, which was certainly a great advantage over the system of other heads of tribes.

What took place out at sea, she knew nothing of; neither what passed in the port nor in the town, to neither of which did she ever go.

She never held any communication with the pirates, and her servants were prohibited from giving her any information under penalty of death.

The old pirate, on the death of his wife, had had two hours' solemn interview with her, during which he gave pledges which he desired to keep. What they were, none knew, and least of all his daughter.

One, however, was never to let her see enough of his people to suspect the nature of his occupation.

Simon Morris loved his child with doting fondness. A wild, romantic, roving character, a love for one far above him in station had made him quit the trade of sea-captain for that of freebooter. Hitherto success had crowned his efforts.

Twenty years he had dwelt on that island undisturbed. Many reasons rendered this easy. The spot offered no landing place, seemed wholly deserted, and was out of the tracks of the ships which navigated that sea. In the next place, during his whole career, Morris never returned to his lair but at night; and none suspected his retreat.

His schooner was well known. Its black pennant | She gazed at it curiously. She could see on its carried terror wherever it was seen to wave; but skill, || decks two boats, and huge barrels, now blazing; but

courage, and audacity always befriended him, and he never had been within danger of being captured. He attacked vessels on the high seas, landed at night near towns, seizing and taking away all he could, but never putting man to death in cold blood.

Resistance he seldom met with, for he prudently shunned the encounter of such Spanish, French, and English war vessels as were sent in chase of him, contenting himself with merchant ships, which, if less glorious, were also more profitable.

And so he lived; and so he expected to die.

CHAPTER II.-FIRE.

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what was her surprise and astonishment when she beheld a man descending from the maintop, by the rigging, where he had been hitherto ensconced, and about, she thought, to venture on the deck of the burning wreck!

He, however, only paused an instant as he came to the flames, and then plunged headlong into the sea. He sank out of sight, and then, rising, swam steadily towards the shore.

Genevieve held her breath with anxiety and alarm. Her eyes remained fixed anxiously on the swimmer, who soon began to give signs of weariness and fatigue. His arms moved slowly, his head seemed bowed down, as if falling upon his chest, and there was a probability

Genevieve was suddenly roused from her reverie by of his not reaching the shore in safety. an unexpected event.

Boom!

A cannon sounded close to the island, which had never happened before; and the young girl sat upright in her hammock, her ears anxiously listening.

A second, a third, a fourth!

"What can this be? said she, casting her eyes along the heavens, and noticing, for the first time, the streak of vapour, now somewhat dark, which flew along the sky towards the east.

Genevieve became uncasy. She feared, she knew not what. An undefined terror took possession of that child of nature, who knew too little of real life to imagine what danger there might be in these cannon at daybreak-she who had never heard them but at night, the signal for her father's return.

"Can it be he?" thought she; "and yet he never comes at dawn, and never fires, but when close in shore." Boom! boom!

Two more shots, making in all six; and then a minute more, and there were eight.

Genevieve clasped her hands. The vapour was getting thick and black, and seemed driven across the rocks|| at the end of the island, from no great distance.

Suddenly it grew dense, and the young girl saw sparks mingled with the lazy smoke, which began to drive more quickly as the wind gently rose.

It was a ship on fire; and next moment its hull came into view, about a quarter of a mile beyond the end of the shoal, driven by the current, which turned round the promontory and then poured into the bight. It was a large brig. Her lower masts only were in existence, with the standing rigging. Her sails, flying gear, and upper masts, were gone. She moved sideways with the current-no hand at the rudder. The flames were rising from the forecastle, and wrapped in fire and smoke the whole of the deck, bursting out at the portholes, and menacing soon to make of the once fine vessel a mass of blazing ruin. It was the heat which had set the cannon off.

Genevieve looked with wonder at the abandoned ship, expecting every moment to see it blown to pieces, for she knew that it must contain gunpowder. There she stood, gazing with curious eyes on this remnant of the outer world, which first showed her that there were really beings in existence besides those on the island, and vessels besides that of her father. She sat thus nearly an hour, by which time the burning vessel was almost at her feet, driven in by the tide and the indraught.

The young girl hesitated not, but leaving her palmleaf umbrella, turned back into the woods towards a slight hill at the back, entered an artificial grotto, passed through it, and began to descend a rudely-cut stair, that soon brought her to a vast natural cave, which led by an even slope to the pebbly strand.

As Genevieve reached the beach she found the swimmer seated on the ground, as if utterly exhausted, and seeking to regain his breath.

He wore a blue shirt, white trousers, but no shoes or stockings.

He was young. His face was pale and thin, but of striking mien, almost handsome, while short-cut black hair, dark eyes, and a well-shaped mouth, formed an ensemble which made poor Genevieve look at him with an interest she could not understand-she, who had scarce ever seen other man than her father, other women than her mother, two Spanish servants (ladies taken prisoners), and four negro slaves.

The young man gazed at Genevieve with a look of stupified surprise which made her smile. He was as strangely surprised as Shakspeare's Ferdinand at the sight of Miranda.

"Am I awake," he cried in English, "or is this but the continuation of my dream?"

"Are you hurt?" said Genevieve, approaching close to him. "I thought your fall from the vessel would have killed you."

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You saw me, then, maiden ?" asked the young man, rising with some difficulty.

"I have watched you for half-an-hour."

"Good heavens, what delight! Methought, maiden, I was cast on some barren and deserted rock to perish; and I find myself in a place where, if the inhabitants be all like what I have seen, I could gladly spend my days."

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You are on my father's territory, sir,” replied Genevieve, blushing she scarcely knew why, "and he will be glad to receive you. But you are but ill here; ascend with me to the summit of the cliff."

The young man made no reply to her speech, but taking her offered arm, for he was very feeble, moved towards the cave, which he entered, but could go no farther then.

"I am faint with hunger and watching," said he. "Young lady, abandon me here. I can at least lic down.'

And he sank on the soft sand at the mouth of the grotto.

Genevieve bade him wait, and vanished to return

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"It was the bloody, the horrid, the daring, and auda

The eyes of Genevieve were completely opened, but she never said a word. She took advantage of the deep shade of the grotto to hide her emotion. "The captain determined to abandon his vessel, and

alone, in about half-an-hour, with a basket containing bread, wine, meat, and a bag containing a frock, and acious pirate, whom Government could never catch, and complete costume, even to shoes. She knew not why, who was condemned twenty times over to an ignomini but she felt unwilling to let her slaves join in assisting ous death-Simon Morris.” the young swimmer she had thus aided to save. "Change your clothes," said she; "get rid of these wet things, and I will return to give you breakfast.” She vanished, to be soon, however, recalled by the young man, who, in the elegant costume of a gentle-escape; but I would not, hoping to obtain my freedom man of the day, which the young girl had instinctively selected from her father's vast wardrobe, looked so handsome and striking, that Genevieve's heart beat in a way it had never beat before.

"How shall I thank my fair and charming preserver?" said the young man.

"Eat first, and talk afterwards," said the freebooter's child, sitting down beside him, and helping him to meat and drink.

They breakfasted almost in silence, as far as the young man was concerned; but Genevieve talked with all the delight of one who never before had met any one whom it gave her such pleasure to speak to.

The young man, who was about four-and-twenty, listened with charmed ears-too faint to reply, too happy to gaze upon her lovely face to care to do so.

He was surprised, puzzled, astonished; he knew not what to think of many things he heard.

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on fire.

after seeing and conversing with the pirate. In the hurry and confusion of descending into the boats I was forgotten. The boats made for the shore; the brigantine made after them. I stood alone on the deck, when || suddenly smoke and flames showed me that the ship was I flew to the rigging, cut away the topmnasts, not to be buried in a pall of blazing spars, and then took refuge in the maintop. The progress of the tire was very slow. It smouldered a long time in the forecastle, and the closely-battened hold, and only burst out with real fury this morning. My position was awful; I had no hope. I sat moodily upon the maintop, gazing stupidly at the fire beneath, and calculating with coldness the hours I had to live. Fever seemed at last to take possession of me. I became excited, even pleased, at my position. I contemplated with pride this ship on fire which I alone possessed. I heard the crackling wood; I saw the smoke; I knew that I must die-and yet I cared no more. Hunger, fatigue, de

"And you," said she at last, "how came you here?" My story is soon told," replied he, completely re-spair, numbed my faculties; and but for the dawn I stored by food and a bottle of generous wine. "I am should soon have fallen headlong into the flames. I a younger son. I have no father, no mother. At the then saw this island, and a ray of hope came to my heart. death of the former, a plantation in our West Indies You know the rest. I landed, thanking God, but still became my portion. I determined to go to it and turn in despair. I saw you, and I learned once more to planter. I started in yonder ship, taking with me in hope, for I saw that there was something here to live goods all my other earthly wealth. I hated England. I for." And as the young man ceased, he fixed his eyes was of the party of Oliver Cromwell; and to me the with grateful respect upon the young girl. restoration of Charles II. was moral death."

"And I have learned that there is nought for me but

"I never heard of Oliver Cromwell, or Charles II.," to die. For the first time in twenty years I learn said Genevieve quietly.

what a pirate is, and that my father is one of the out

"But you are English?" exclaimed the deeply sur-lawed race," exclaimed Genevieve, with sudden and prised young man.

"I am; but I was born here."

"You astound me," continued the young man; "but I will go on with my story. We reached the neighbourhood of Jamaica, when a series of storms drove us into the gulf. Though well armed, we were uneasy, for we were on the coast of Cuba, very much infested with pirates."

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deep emotion.

"You?" said the young man, gazing at her, half alarmed, half curiously.

"I am the daughter of Simon Morris," replied the young girl, rising.

The young man rose too, and examined her with astonishment. He could not speak.

"I have tried to save your life, young man," said Genevieve, sadly; "make me not regret my act by de

"What are pirates?" asked Genevieve, curiously. "Men who go about in ships, attacking merchant-nouncing my father." men, killing and slaying the passengers, and robbing them of their property.'

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Genevieve made no reply, but looked out on the sea, musing.

"Yesterday we at last found our reckoning, and were about again to make back for Jamaica, when a ship hove in sight. We put on all sail, and sheered off. But in vain. The swift-heeled brigantine gained on us every minute. She sailed eight knots to our six, and nothing was left for us but a fight. In our hurry, we had steered wrongly, and had run close under the Cuban shore. When we found our mistake, our enemy was upon us. The captain was about to defend himself, but when he saw the brigantine's flag he changed his mind."

"Why?" asked Genevieve.

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"Madame," replied the sailor, solemnly, "I would never, under any circumstances, have denounced Simon Morris; now, I would save him, were he in danger. If I leave this island, rely on it I shall never forget who saved me, nor that she was the daughter of Simon Morris-”

"The bloody, the horrid, the daring, the audacious pirate," repeated Genevieve, gravely. "So men say. But it cannot be. The father of so fair, so pure a being-"

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Is to me all that is good and noble. He follows, it is true, a bad and dangerous calling, for now I fully understand all; but he is not bloody-bold, daring, I know he must be-but again I say he is not bloody.”

"Child of this island of the gulf, it is enough for

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