“Signora, it is always decent to interfere to save life; nay, it is more—­it is merciful in the eyes of God.”

“What canst thou know of this?  A conceit that thou hast the blood of the Caraccioli has made thee forget thy sex and condition, and placed a romantic notion of duty before thine eyes.”

“No, Signora, it is not so.  For eighteen years have I been taught that the unfortunate admiral was my grandfather; but, as it has been his pleasure to wish not to see me, never have I felt the desire to intrude on his time.  Before this morning never has the thought that I have the blood of the Caraccioli crossed my mind, unless it was to mourn for the sin of my grandmother; and even now it has come to cause me to mourn for the cruel fate that threatens the days of her partner in guilt.”

“Thou art bold to speak thus of thy parents, girl, and they, too, of the noble and great!”

This was said with a flushed brow and still more lowering look; for, haply, there were incidents in the past life of that lady which made the simple language of a severe morality alike offensive to her ears and her recollections.

“It is not I, Eccellenza, but God, that speaketh thus.  The crime, too, is another reason why this great admiral should use his influence to save a sinner from so hurried an end.  Death is terrible to all but to those who trust, with heart and soul, to the mediation of the Son of God; but it is doubly so when it comes suddenly and unlooked for.  It is true, Don Francesco is aged; but have you not remarked, signora, that it is these very aged who become hardened to their state, and live on, as if never to die?—­I mean those aged who suffer youth to pass, as if the pleasures of life are never to have an end.”

“Thou art too young to set up for a reformer of the world, girl; and forgettest that this is the ship of one of the greatest officers of Europe, and that he has many demands on his time.  Thou canst now go; I will repeat what thou hast said.”

“I have another request to ask, Eccellenza—­permission to see Don Francesco; that I may at least receive his blessing.”

“He is not in this ship.  Thou wilt find him on board the Minerva frigate; no doubt he will not be denied.  Stop—­these few lines will aid thy request.  Addio, signorina.”

“And may I carry hope with me, Eccellenza?  Think how sweet life is to those who have passed their days so long in affluence and honor.  It would be like a messenger from heaven for a grand-child to bring but a ray of hope.”

“I authorize none.  The matter is in the hands of the Neapolitan authorities, and we English cannot meddle.  Go, now, both of you—­the illustrious admiral has business of importance that presses.”

Ghita turned, and slowly and sorrowfully she left the cabin.  At the very door she met the English lieutenant, who was in charge of the unhappy prisoner, coming with a last request that he might not be suspended like a thief, but might at least die the death of a soldier.  It would exceed the limits set to our tale were we to dwell on the conversation which ensued; but every intelligent reader knows that the application failed.