as jet, and his cheek was half covered in whiskers of a hue dark as the raven’s wing.  His face, as a whole, was singularly beautiful—­for handsome is a word not strong enough to express all the character that was conveyed by a conformation that might be supposed to have been copied from some antique medal, more especially when illuminated by a smile that, at times, rendered the whole countenance almost as bewitching as that of a lovely woman.  There was nothing effeminate in the appearance of the young stranger, notwithstanding; his manly, though sweet voice, well-knit frame, and firm look affording every pledge of resolution and spirit.

Both the vice-governatore and the podesta were struck with the unusual personal advantages and smart air of the stranger, and each stood looking at him half a minute in silence, after the usual salutations had passed, and before the party were seated.  Then, as the three took chairs, on a motion from Signor Barrofaldi, the latter opened the discourse.

“They tell me that we have the honor to receive into our little haven a vessel of Inghilterra, Signor Capitano,” observed the vice-governatore, earnestly regarding the other through his spectacles as he spoke, and that, too, in a manner not altogether free from distrust.

“Signer Vice-governatore, such is the flag under which I have the honor to serve,” returned the mariner.

“You are an Inglese, yourself, I trust, Signor Capitano—­what name shall I enter in my book, here?”

“Jaques Smeet,” answered the other, betraying what might have proved two very fatal shibboleths, in the ears of those who were practised in the finesse of our very unmusical language, by attempting to say “Jack Smith.”

“Jaques Smeet,” repeated the vice-governatore—­“that is, Giacomo, in our Italian—­”

“No—­no—­Signore,” hastily interrupted Captain Smeet; “not Jaqueomo, but Jaques—­Giovanni turned into Jaques by the aid of a little salt water.”

“Ah!—­I begin to understand you, Signore; you English have this usage in your language, though you have softened the word a little, in mercy to our ears.  But we Italians are not afraid of such sounds; and I know the name.—­’Giac Smeet’—­Il Capitano Giac Smeet—­I have long suspected my English master of ignorance, for he was merely one of our Leghorn pilots, who has sailed in a bastimento de guerra of your country—­he called your honorable name ‘Smees,’ Signore.”

“He was very wrong, Signor Vice-governatore,” answered the other, clearing his throat by a slight effort; “we always call our family ‘Smeet.’”

“And the name of your lugger, Signor Capitano Smeet?” suspending his pen over the paper in expectation of the answer.

“Ze Ving-and-Ving”; pronouncing the w’s in a very different way from what they had been sounded in answering the hails.

“Ze Ving-y-Ving,” repeated Signor Barrofaldi, writing the name in a manner to show it was not the first time he had heard it; “ze Ving-y-Ving; that is a poetical appellation, Signor Capitano; may I presume to ask what it signifies?”