But the first idea, though it might naturally have occurred to an indifferent observer, and, in some respect, had not hitherto been wholly a stranger to Captain Delano’s mind, yet, now that, in an incipient way, he began to regard the stranger’s conduct something in the light of an intentional affront, of course the idea of lunacy was virtually vacated.  But if not a lunatic, what then?  Under the circumstances, would a gentleman, nay, any honest boor, act the part now acted by his host?  The man was an impostor.  Some low-born adventurer, masquerading as an oceanic grandee; yet so ignorant of the first requisites of mere gentlemanhood as to be betrayed into the present remarkable indecorum.  That strange ceremoniousness, too, at other times evinced, seemed not uncharacteristic of one playing a part above his real level.  Benito Cereno—­Don Benito Cereno—­a sounding name.  One, too, at that period, not unknown, in the surname, to super-cargoes and sea captains trading along the Spanish Main, as belonging to one of the most enterprising and extensive mercantile families in all those provinces; several members of it having titles; a sort of Castilian Rothschild, with a noble brother, or cousin, in every great trading town of South America.  The alleged Don Benito was in early manhood, about twenty-nine or thirty.  To assume a sort of roving cadetship in the maritime affairs of such a house, what more likely scheme for a young knave of talent and spirit?  But the Spaniard was a pale invalid.  Never mind.  For even to the degree of simulating mortal disease, the craft of some tricksters had been known to attain.  To think that, under the aspect of infantile weakness, the most savage energies might be couched—­those velvets of the Spaniard but the silky paw to his fangs.

From no train of thought did these fancies come; not from within, but from without; suddenly, too, and in one throng, like hoar frost; yet as soon to vanish as the mild sun of Captain Delano’s good-nature regained its meridian.

Glancing over once more towards his host—­whose side-face, revealed above the skylight, was now turned towards him—­he was struck by the profile, whose clearness of cut was refined by the thinness, incident to ill-health, as well as ennobled about the chin by the beard.  Away with suspicion.  He was a true off-shoot of a true hidalgo Cereno.

Relieved by these and other better thoughts, the visitor, lightly humming a tune, now began indifferently pacing the poop, so as not to betray to Don Benito that he had at all mistrusted incivility, much less duplicity; for such mistrust would yet be proved illusory, and by the event; though, for the present, the circumstance which had provoked that distrust remained unexplained.  But when that little mystery should have been cleared up, Captain Delano thought he might extremely regret it, did he allow Don Benito to become aware that he had indulged in ungenerous surmises.  In short, to the Spaniard’s black-letter text, it was best, for awhile, to leave open margin.