“Ah, my dear friend,” Don Benito once said, “at those very times when you thought me so morose and ungrateful, nay, when, as you now admit, you half thought me plotting your murder, at those very times my heart was frozen; I could not look at you, thinking of what, both on board this ship and your own, hung, from other hands, over my kind benefactor.  And as God lives, Don Amasa, I know not whether desire for my own safety alone could have nerved me to that leap into your boat, had it not been for the thought that, did you, unenlightened, return to your ship, you, my best friend, with all who might be with you, stolen upon, that night, in your hammocks, would never in this world have wakened again.  Do but think how you walked this deck, how you sat in this cabin, every inch of ground mined into honey-combs under you.  Had I dropped the least hint, made the least advance towards an understanding between us, death, explosive death—­yours as mine—­would have ended the scene.”

“True, true,” cried Captain Delano, starting, “you have saved my life, Don Benito, more than I yours; saved it, too, against my knowledge and will.”

“Nay, my friend,” rejoined the Spaniard, courteous even to the point of religion, “God charmed your life, but you saved mine.  To think of some things you did—­those smilings and chattings, rash pointings and gesturings.  For less than these, they slew my mate, Raneds; but you had the Prince of Heaven’s safe-conduct through all ambuscades.”

“Yes, all is owing to Providence, I know:  but the temper of my mind that morning was more than commonly pleasant, while the sight of so much suffering, more apparent than real, added to my good-nature, compassion, and charity, happily interweaving the three.  Had it been otherwise, doubtless, as you hint, some of my interferences might have ended unhappily enough.  Besides, those feelings I spoke of enabled me to get the better of momentary distrust, at times when acuteness might have cost me my life, without saving another’s.  Only at the end did my suspicions get the better of me, and you know how wide of the mark they then proved.”

“Wide, indeed,” said Don Benito, sadly; “you were with me all day; stood with me, sat with me, talked with me, looked at me, ate with me, drank with me; and yet, your last act was to clutch for a monster, not only an innocent man, but the most pitiable of all men.  To such degree may malign machinations and deceptions impose.  So far may even the best man err, in judging the conduct of one with the recesses of whose condition he is not acquainted.  But you were forced to it; and you were in time undeceived.  Would that, in both respects, it was so ever, and with all men.”

“You generalize, Don Benito; and mournfully enough.  But the past is passed; why moralize upon it?  Forget it.  See, yon bright sun has forgotten it all, and the blue sea, and the blue sky; these have turned over new leaves.”