“The ‘devil’ appeared like a monkey, with a gray beard, in a ruff;—­humph!—­”

“Ay!” said she in good enough Spanish, “Mono de Panama; viejo diablo de Panama.”

Yeo threw up his hands with a shriek—­“Oh Lord of all mercies!  Those were the last words of Mr. John Oxenham!  Ay—­and the devil is surely none other than the devil Don Francisco Xararte!  Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! my sweet young lady! my pretty little maid! and don’t you know me?  Don’t you know Salvation Yeo, that carried you over the mountains, and used to climb for the monkey-cups for you, my dear young lady?  And William Penberthy too, that used to get you flowers; and your poor dear father, that was just like Mr. Cary there, only he had a black beard, and black curls, and swore terribly in his speech, like a Spaniard, my dear young lady?”

And the honest fellow, falling on his knees, covered Ayacanora’s hands with kisses; while all the crew, fancying him gone suddenly mad, crowded aft.

“Steady, men, and don’t vex him!” said Amyas.  “He thinks that he has found his little maid at last.”

“And so do I, Amyas, as I live,” said Cary.

“Steady, steady, my masters all!  If this turn out a wrong scent after all, his wits will crack.  Mr. Yeo, can’t you think of any other token?”

Yeo stamped impatiently.  “What need then? it’s her, I tell ye, and that’s enough!  What a beauty she’s grown!  Oh dear! where were my eyes all this time, to behold her, and not to see her!  ’Tis her very mortal self, it is!  And don’t you mind me, my dear, now?  Don’t you mind Salvation Yeo, that taught you to sing ‘Heave my mariners all, O!’ a-sitting on a log by the boat upon the sand, and there was a sight of red lilies grew on it in the moss, dear, now, wasn’t there? and we made posies of them to put in your hair, now?”—­And the poor old man ran on in a supplicating, suggestive tone, as if he could persuade the girl into becoming the person whom he sought.

Ayacanora had watched him, first angry, then amused, then attentive, and at last with the most intense earnestness.  Suddenly she grew crimson, and snatching her hands from the old man’s, hid her face in them, and stood.

“Do you remember anything of all this, my child?” asked Amyas, gently.

She lifted up her eyes suddenly to his, with a look of imploring agony, as if beseeching him to spare her.  The death of a whole old life, the birth of a whole new life, was struggling in that beautiful face, choking in that magnificent throat, as she threw back her small head, and drew in her breath, and dashed her locks back from her temples, as if seeking for fresh air.  She shuddered, reeled, then fell weeping on the bosom, not of Salvation Yeo, but of Amyas Leigh.

He stood still a minute or two, bearing that fair burden, ere he could recollect himself.  Then,—­

“Ayacanora, you are not yet mistress of yourself, my child.  You were better to go down, and see after poor Lucy, and we will talk about it all to-morrow.”