The power-schooner, manned by a crew from the cutter, was to be taken to Santa Marina also.  Senor Gonzales remained with us for the day as our guest, and on the next the boats from the cutter took off the pirates from the cave.  We did not see them again.  Through the convenient elasticity of Santa Marinan procedure, Mr. Tubbs was herded along with the rest, although he might plausibly, if hypocritically, have pleaded that he had complied with the will of the invaders under duress.  Aunt Jane wept very much, and handed me Paeans of Passion with the request that she might never see it again.

We parted from Senor Gonzales not without regrets.  It was an impressive leave-taking—­indeed, Senor, Gonzales in his least word and gesture was impressive.  Also, he managed subtly and respectfully to impart to me the knowledge that he shared Titian’s tastes in the matter of hair.  On his departure he made a pretty little speech, full of compliments and floral specimens, and bestowed upon me—­as being mine by right, he earnestly protested—­the two bags of Spanish doubloons.

[*]Since the above was written, Mr. Shaw has run across Tony on the San Francisco water-front.  Tony tells him that they got off with three months’ imprisonment.  The American consul interested himself and the schooner was restored to her owners, who were Tony’s relations and hence did not prosecute.  Before the discharged prisoners left the republic Captain Magnus was stabbed over a card game by a native.  Mr. Tubbs married a wealthy half-caste woman, the owner of a fine plantation, but a perfectly genuine Mrs. Tubbs from Peoria turned up later, and the too much married H. H. was obliged to achieve one of his over-night flittings.

XXI

THE BISHOP’S CHEST

W3 waited nine days for the coming of the Rufus Smith.  During that time an episode occurred as a result of which I sat one morning by myself on the rocks beside the sloop, on which such ardent hopes had been centered, only like the derelict itself to be wrecked at last.  It was a lonely spot and I wanted to be alone.  I felt abused, and sad, and sore.  I realized that I was destined to do nothing but harm in this world, and to hurt people I was fond of, and be misunderstood by every one, and to live on—­if I wasn’t lucky enough to meet with a premature and sudden end—­into a sour, lonely, crabbed old age, when I would wish to goodness I had married anybody, and might even finish by applying to a Matrimonial Agency.

As I sat nursing these melancholy thoughts I heard a footstep.  I did not look up—­for I knew the footstep.  I should have known it if it had trodden over my grave.

“I take it you are not wanting company, you have come so far out of the way of it,” said Dugald Shaw.

Still I did not look up.

“Nobody seemed to want me,” I remarked sulkily, after a pause.  He made no reply, but seated himself upon the rocks.  For a little there was silence.