Ghita had dined, for the day had now turned some time, and the girl had come on deck to escape the confinement of a very small cabin, leaving her uncle to enjoy his customary siesta.  She was seated under the awning of the quarter-deck, using her needle, as was her wont at that hour on the heights of Argentaro.  Raoul had placed himself on a gunslide near her, and Ithuel was busy within a few feet of them, dissecting a spy-glass, with a view to clean its lenses.

“I suppose the most excellent Andrea Barrofaldi will sing a Te Deum for his escape from our fangs,” suddenly exclaimed Raoul, laughing. “Pardie! he is a great historian and every way fit to write an account of this glorious victory, which Monsieur l’Anglais, la bas, is about to send to his government!”

“And you, Raoul, have no occasion for a Te Deum after your escape?” demanded Ghita, gently, and yet with emphasis.  “Is there no God for you to thank, as well as for the vice-governatore?”

“Peste!—­our French deity is little thought of just now, Ghita.  Republics, as you know, have no great faith in religion—­is it not so, mon brave Americain? Tell us, Etooel; have you any religion in America?”

As Ithuel had often heard Raoul’s opinions on this subject and knew the prevailing state of France in this particular, he neither felt nor expressed any surprise at the question.  Still, the idea ran counter to all his own notions and prejudices, he having been early taught to respect religion, even when he was most serving the devil.  In a word, Ithuel was one of those descendants of Puritanism who, “God-ward,” as it is termed, was quite unexceptionable, so far as his theory extended, but who, “manward,” was “as the Scribes and Pharisees.”  Nevertheless, as he expressed it himself, “he always stood up for religion,” a fact that his English companions had commented on in jokes, maintaining that he even “stood up” when the rest of the ship’s company were on their knees.

“I’m a little afraid, Monsieur Rule,” he answered, “that in France you have entered the rope of republicanism at the wrong end.  In Ameriky, we even put religion before dollars; and if that isn’t convincing I’ll give it up.  Now, I do wish you could see a Sunday once in the Granite State, Signorina Ghita, that you might get some notion what our western religion ra’ally is.”

“All real religion—­all real devotion to God—­is, or ought to be, the same, Signor Ithuello, whether in the east or in the west.  A Christian is a Christian, let him live or die where he may.”

“That’s not exactly platform, I fancy.  Why, Lord bless ye, young lady, your religion, now, is no more like mine than my religion is like that of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s, or Monsieur Rule’s, here!”

“La mienne!” exclaimed Raoul—­“I pretend to none, mon brave; there can be no likeness to nothing.”

Ghita’s glance was kind, rather than reproachful; but it was profoundly sorrowful.