that he thought it highly probable that if they started upon any expedition of the kind, his friend, if he got him alone some fine night in a lonely place, would quietly stick his knife into him and make off with the whole.  He therefore declined the proposition, but their relations nevertheless continued as friendly as before.  Money was the only power, Salve reflected with bitterness, and this satisfaction at least he could now enjoy in life.

It had become so obvious to him that Federigo’s attachment was more to his money than to himself, that he determined to get rid of his irksome attentions.  Accordingly, when they arrived at Nieuwediep, he made all his arrangements for leaving the vessel, legally this time, without saying a word to him of his intention; and Federigo only heard of it at the last moment when he met him coming up with his hammock clothes.  He turned pale, and tears came into his eyes,—­whether from a feeling of injured friendship, or from disappointment, Salve could not quite make out.  The expression of his face, with his restless small black eyes, resembled that of a disturbed rat.  At last he fell on Salve’s neck in his impetuous way, and broke out—­

“But at any rate we must have one parting glass together this evening.  I don’t know how I shall ever do without you—­it is so long now since we two have chummed together.”

Against his better reason Salve allowed himself to feel a little softened at the thought; and the remembrance of all the attachment this scoundrel had shown for him aroused something that almost resembled emotion.

“It is no use, my friend,” he replied; “what is done can’t be undone.  But I’ll give you this evening, at all events.  You’ll find me waiting for you in the Aurora.”

As usual at this season of the year, there were a great many vessels in the harbour, and the Aurora tavern was full that evening of seafaring folk laughing and talking and singing, and renewing, or laying the foundations of, acquaintanceships over brandy or gin; while in the little room over the bar, dance music was going on uninterruptedly, and the boards were creaking under alternate Dutch schottische and English hornpipe.

To properly appreciate a genuine sailors’ reel or hornpipe, one should see it danced by men who for a whole year at a time have been battling with the waves and storms in every corner of the world, and who during all that time have hardly set eyes upon a female form.  They come on shore bursting with a full masculine longing for the society of the other sex, with a year’s stored-up feeling to let out; and there is a positive intoxication to them in the mere dance—­in the mere holding at Nieuwediep Anniken or Bibecke, or at Portsmouth Mary Ann, by the waist; and Mary Ann and Bibecke perfectly understand this, and for the moment feel themselves persons of no small importance.  There is no element of coarseness in the feeling.  The sailor is more given to sentiment