a leg of pork to be served in our chamber, whereof Dawson did eat such a prodigious quantity, and drank therewith such a vast quantity of strong ale (which he protested was the only liquor an Englishman could drink with any satisfaction), that in the night he was seized with most severe cramp in his stomach.  This gave us the occasion to send for a doctor in the morning, who, learning that Jack had been ill ever since we left Barbary, and not understanding his present complaint, pulled a very long face, and, declaring his case was very critical, bled him copiously, forbade him to leave his bed for another fortnight, and sent him in half a dozen bottles of physic.  About midday he returns, and, finding his patient no better, administers a bolus; and while we are all standing about the bed, and Dawson the colour of death, and groaning, betwixt the nausea of the drug he had swallowed and the cramp in his inwards, in comes our Captain Ballcock and the little steward.

“There!” cries he, turning on Simon, “did not I tell you that my old friend Evans lay at death’s door with the treatment he hath received of these Barbary pirates?  Now will you be putting us off with your doubts and your questionings?  Shall I have up my ship’s company to testify to the truth of my history?  Look you, Madam,” (to Moll), “we had all the trouble in the world to make this steward of yours do your bidding; but he should have come though we had to bring him by the neck and heels, and a pox to him—­saving your presence.”

“But this is not Simon,” says Moll, with a pretty air of innocence.  “I seem to remember Simon a bigger man than he.”

“You must consider, Madam,” says Don Sanchez, “that then you were very small, scarce higher than his waist, maybe, and so you would have to look up into his face.”

“I did not think of that.  And are you really Simon, who used to scold me for plucking fruit?”

“Yea, verily,” answers he.  “Doubt it not, for thou also hast changed beyond conception.  And so it hath come to pass!” he adds, staring round at us in our Moorish garb like one bewildered.  “And thou art my mistress now” (turning again to Moll).

“Alas!” says she, bowing her head and covering her eyes with her hand.

“Han’t I told you so, unbelieving Jew Quaker!” growls Captain Ballcock, in exasperation.  “Why will you plague the unhappy lady with her loss?”

“We will leave Evans to repose,” says Moll, brushing her eyes and turning to the door.  “You will save his life, Doctor, for he has given me mine.”

The doctor vowed he would, if bleeding and boluses could make him whole, and so, leaving him with poor groaning Dawson, we went into the next chamber.  And there Captain Ballcock was for taking his leave; but Moll, detaining him, says: 

“We owe you something more than gratitude—­we have put you to much expense.”

“Nay,” cries he.  “I will take nought for doing a common act of mercy.”