“Now, pirate,” said the man, turning round and suddenly flashing a dark lantern full on the stern face of the prisoner, “you and I will have a little convarse together—­by yer leave or without yer leave.  In case there might be pryin’ eyes about, I’ve closed the porthole, d’ye see.”

Gascoyne listened to this familiar style of address in surprise, but did not suffer his features to betray any emotion whatever.  The lantern which the seaman (for such he evidently was) carried in his hand threw a strong light wherever its front was turned, but left every other part of the cell in partial darkness.  The reflected light was, however, quite sufficient to enable the prisoner to see that his visitor was a short, thick-set man, of great physical strength, and that three men of unusual size and strength stood against the wall, in the deep shadow of a recess, with their straw hats pulled very much over their eyes.

“Now, Mr. Gascoyne,” began the seaman, sitting down on the edge of a small table beside the low pallet, and raising the lantern a little, while he gazed earnestly into the prisoner’s face, “I’ve reason to believe—­”

“Ha! you are the boatswain of the Talisman!” exclaimed Gascoyne, as the light reflected from his own countenance irradiated that of Dick Price, whom, of course, he had seen while they were on board the frigate together.

“No, Mister Pirate,” said Dick; “I am not the bo’s’n of the Talisman, else I shouldn’t be here this night.  I wos the bo’s’n of that unfortunate frigate, but I is so no longer.”

Dick said this in a melancholy tone, and thereafter meditated for a few moments in silence.

“No,” he resumed with a heavy sigh, “the Talisman’s blow’d up, an’ her bo’s’n’s out on the spree, so to speak—­though it ain’t a cheerful spree, by no means.  But to come back to the p’int (w’ich was wot the clergyman said w’en he’d got so far away from the p’int that he never did get back to it), as I wos sayin’, or was goin’ to say w’en you prewented me, I’ve reason to b’lieve you’re agoin’ to try for to make yer escape.”

“You are mistaken, my man,” said Gascoyne, with a sad smile; “nothing is further from my thoughts.”

“I don’t know how far it’s from yer thoughts,” said Dick, sternly, “but it’s pretty close to your intentions, so I’m told.”

“Indeed you are mistaken,” replied Gascoyne.  “If Captain Montague has sent you here to mount guard, he has only deprived you of a night’s rest needlessly.  If I had intended to make my escape, I would not have given myself up.”

“I don’t know that,—­I’m not so sure o’ that,” rejoined the boatswain, stoutly.  “You’re said to be a obstinate feller, and there’s no sayin’ what obstinate fellers won’t do or will do.  But I didn’t come here for to argify the question with you, Mister Gascoyne.  Wot I com’d here for wos to do my duty; so, now, I’m agoin’ to do it.”

Gascoyne, who was amused in spite of himself by the manner of the man, merely smiled, and awaited in silence the pleasure of his eccentric visitor.