He trotted close at my heels as I flung open the door leading into the cabin.  The air seemed fresh enough and I noted two of the ports wide open.  A tall smooth-shaven man, with an ugly scar down one cheek, lay outstretched on a divan at the foot of the after mast, his very posture proclaiming him dead.  His face was the color of parchment, wrinkled with age, but I knew him at once as Spanish.  A uniform cap lay beside him, and I stopped just long enough to scan his features.

“Here, Sam, do you know this fellow.”

The negro crept up behind me reluctantly enough, and stared at the upturned face over my shoulder.

“My Gaud, sah, he wus de ol’ Captain.”

“The one you served under?  What was his name?”

“Paradilla, sah; damn his soul!”

“A slaver, I suppose; well, he’s run his last cargo of niggers.  Let’s look into the rooms.”

They were empty, all in disorder, but unoccupied.  In what was evidently the Captain’s room I discovered a pricked chart and a log-book, with no entry in it for three days.  Without waiting to examine these I stowed them away in my pocket and returned to Paradilla, relieved to learn our labor aft was so light, and eager to have it over with.  Some physical persuasion was necessary to compel Sam to assist me, but finally he took hold, and between us we forced the stiffened form of the Captain through the open after port, and heard it splash into the sea astern.  Then I closed the cabin door, and led the way forward.

To my great relief the hold was empty, although the smell arising through the partially opened hatch was stifling, the reminder of a cargo lately discharged.  There were two dead seamen in the forecastle, both swarthy fellows, with long Indian hair.  I never saw a dirtier hole, the filth overpowering, and once satisfied that both men were beyond help, I was content to lower the scuttle and leave them there.  God! it was a relief to return once more to the open deck and breathe in the fresh air.  Schmitt was holding the schooner close up in the wind, which, however, was barely heavy enough to keep the sails full.  Yet at that the sharp-nosed craft was making the best of it, leaving a long wake astern, the waves cresting within a few feet of her rail as she swept gloriously forward.  I leaned over, and hailed the boat, towing below.

“Come aboard, Watkins,” I called sharply.  “Pass the lady up first, and turn the boat adrift.”

“What is she, sir?”

“An abandoned slaver.  I’ll tell you the story later.  Come aboard.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

I caught Dorothy’s hands and aided her over the rail, the schooner rode steady and she stood still grasping me, her eager eyes on the deck aft.  Then they sought my face questioningly, the seamen beginning to gather between us and the rail.

“Why was the vessel abandoned?” she asked.  “What has happened?  Do you know?”

“Yes; the story is plain enough,” I explained, deeming it best to tell the whole truth.  “This is a slaver, the Santa Marie, plying between Cuba and the African coast.  Sam, the negro who came aboard with me, served as cook on board for one voyage.  I do not know why they should be in these waters—­driven north by a storm likely—­but cholera was the trouble.  The crew are all overboard, or dead.”