and rosy; ruddied doubtless, by the wind and brine, but I think partly also by the angry light of the sunsetting which broke the weather to seaward and turned the pools and the wetted sand to the colour of blood.  A hound kept beside her, shivering and now and then lowering his muzzle to sniff the oreweed, as if the brine of it puzzled him:  a beast in shape somewhat like our grey-hounds, but longer and taller, and coated like a wolf.

As I have tried to describe her she stood amid the men and the tangle of the beach; a shape majestical and yet (as we drew closer) slight and forlorn.  The present cause of her gestures we made out to be a dark-skinned fellow whom two of Saint Aubyn’s men held prisoner with his arms trussed behind him.  On her other hand were gathered the rest of the Portuguese, very sullen and with dark looks whenever she turned from them to Saint Aubyn and from their language to the English.  He, I could see, was perplexed, and stood fingering his beard:  but his face brightened as he came a step to meet my Master.

“Ha!” said he, “you can help us, Milliton.  You speak the Portuguese, I believe?” (For my master was known to speak most of the languages of Europe, having caught them up in his youth when his father’s madness forced him abroad.  And I myself, who had accompanied him so far as Venice, could pick my way in the lingua Franca.) “This fellow”—­ pointing at the prisoner—­“has just drawn a knife on the lady here; and indeed would have killed her, but for this hound of hers.  My fellows have him tight and safe, as you see:  but I was thinking by your leave to lodge him with you, yours being the nearest house for the safe keeping of such.  But the plague is,” says he, “there seems to be more in the business than I can fathom:  for one half of these drenched villains take the man’s part, while scarce one of them seems too well disposed towards the lady:  although to my knowledge she has worked more than any ten of them in salving the cargo.  And heaven help me if I can understand a word of their chatter!”

My Master lifted his cap to her; and she lifted her eyes to him, but never a word did she utter, though but a moment since she had been using excellent English.  Only she stood, slight and helpless and (I swear) most pitiful, as one saying, “Here is my judge.  I am content.”

My Master turned to the prisoner and questioned him in the Portuguese.  But the fellow (a man taller than the rest and passably straight-looking) would confess nothing but that his name was Gil Perez of Lagos, the boatswain of the wrecked ship.  Questioned of the assault, he shook his head merely and shrugged his shoulders.  His face was white:  it seemed to me unaccountably, until glancing down I took note of a torn wound above his right knee on the inside, where the hound’s teeth had fastened.

“But who is the captain of the ship?” my Master demanded in Portuguese; and they thrust forward a small man who seemed not over-willing.  Indeed his face had nothing to commend him, being sharp and yellow, with small eyes set too near against the nose.