Immersed as I was in thought, all this left but small impress on me.  I felt that I could understand the interest exhibited by Dorothy Fairfax, and, greatly as I already admired her, I was not egotist enough to even imagine that her effort to serve me had basis in any personal attraction.  My connection with Bucclough, coupled with her uncle’s report of my conviction, had very naturally aroused the girl’s sympathy in my behalf.  She felt a desire to lighten my sorrows as much as possible, and, under the existing circumstances, had found it comparatively easy to persuade the good-natured planter to acquiesce in her suggestion.  In all probability he really had need of my services, and was therefore glad enough of this opportunity to secure them.  This part of the affair I could dismiss without giving anyone undue credit, although I deeply appreciated the kindness of heart which had led her to interpose, and which later led her to tell me so quickly what had occurred.  Her purpose, however, was fairly clear.

But what about Lieutenant Sanchez?  Why was this unknown Spaniard already so openly my enemy?  There was no doubting his position, and there surely must be some reason for it outside of anything which had occurred on board the Romping Betsy.  His words had given me some inkling of the cause—­a past quarrel with the Duke of Bucclough, in England, in which he must have been worsted, and which had left in his mind a lurking desire for revenge.  He dreamed of striking his enemy through me, because of relationship, a cowardly blow.  Yet this, by itself alone, was scarcely a reason why he should have thus sought me out for a victim.  No sane man would deliberately visit the sins of my brother on me.  Nor had this been deliberate; it was the mere outburst of sudden passion, arising through my intercourse with the young woman.  Otherwise it might never have occurred to him.  So there was seemingly but one answer—­Sanchez used this merely as an excuse for the concealment of his real object.  What could that object be?  Could it be Dorothy Fairfax?  I was a long while in actually convincing myself of this probability, and yet no other satisfactory explanation offered itself.  She had exhibited an interest in me from the very first, and he had endeavored to win her attention elsewhere.  Even that day when we first came aboard in chains, he had plainly evinced this desire, and, since then, the girl had never appeared on deck, without his immediately seeking her company.  I felt finally that I had the clue—­jealousy, the mad, unreasoning jealousy of his race.  He fiercely resented her slightest interest in anyone—­even a prisoner—­as against his own attractions.  He was incapable of appreciating friendly sympathy, and already held me a dangerous rival.  Then, possibly, it had not been a mere idle desire to visit the Colonies, which had originally led to his prompt acceptance of Roger Fairfax’s invitation to make one of their party; the real attraction was the charms of Dorothy—­her girlish beauty, coupled, no doubt, with her father’s wealth.  The fellow was in love, impetuously in love, resenting blindly the slightest advance of any other.