The Scotchman shook his head.  “Joke!  Master Bonnet,” he exclaimed, “it is no joke.  He has ta’en your ship from ye; he has ta’en from ye your sword, your pistols, an’ your wicked black flag, an’ he has made evil impossible to ye.  He has ta’en from ye the shame an’ the wretched wickedness o’ bein’ a pirate.  Think o’ that, Master Bonnet, ye are no longer a pirate.  That most devilish o’ all demons has presarved the rest o’ your life from the dishonour an’ the infamy which ye were labourin’ to heap upon it.  Ye are a poor mon now, Master Bonnet; that Beelzebub will strip from ye everything ye had, all your riches shall be his.  Ye can no longer afford to be a pirate; ye will be compelled to be an honest mon.  An’ I tell ye that my soul lifteth itsel’ in thanksgivin’ an’ my heart is happier than it has been since that fearsome day when ye went on board your vessel at Bridgetown.”

“Ben,” said Bonnet, “it is hard and it is cruel, that in this, the time of my great trouble, you turn upon me.  I have been robbed; I have been ruined; my life is of no more use to me, and you, Ben Greenway, revile me while that I am prostrate.”

“Revile!” said the Scotchman.  “I glory, I rejoice!  Ye hae been converted, ye hae been changed, ye hae been snatched from the jaws o’ hell.  Moreover, Master Bonnet, my soul was rejoiced even before that master de’il came to set ye free from your toils.  To look upon ye an’ see that, although ye called yoursel’ a pirate, ye were no like ane o’ these black-hearted cut-throats.  Ye were never as wicked, Master Bonnet, as ye said ye were!”

“You are mistaken,” groaned Bonnet; “I tell you, Ben Greenway, you are mistaken; I am just as wicked as I ever was.  And I was very wicked, as you should admit, knowing what I have done.  Oh, Ben, Ben!  Is it true that I shall never go on board my good ship again?”

And with this he spread his arms upon the table and laid his head upon them.  He felt as if his career was ended and his heart broken.  Ben Greenway said no more to comfort him, but at that moment he himself was the happiest man on the Caribbean Sea.  He seated himself in the little dirty cabin, and his soul saw visions.  He saw his master, deprived of all his belongings, and with them of every taint of piracy, and put on shore, accompanied, of course, by his faithful servant.  He saw a ship sail, perhaps soon, perhaps later, for Jamaica; he saw the blithe Mistress Kate, her soul no longer sorrowing for an erring father, come on board that vessel and sail with him for good old Bridgetown.  He saw everything explained, everything forgotten.  He saw before the dear old family a life of happiness—­perhaps he saw the funeral of Madam Bonnet—­and, better than all, he saw the pirate dead, the good man revived again.

To be sure, he did not see Dickory Charter returning to his old home with his mother, for he could not know what Blackbeard was going to do with that young fellow; but as Dickory had thought of him when he had escaped with Kate from the Revenge, so thought he now of Dickory.  There were so many other important things which bore upon the situation that he was not able even to consider the young fellow.