whom they had to deal.  Their hastily formed ranks were smashed before they could be steadied; driven across the waist to the break of the poop on the one side, and up to the forecastle bulkheads on the other, the fighting resolved itself into a series of skirmishes between groups.  And whilst this was doing above, another horde of buccaneers swarmed through the hatch to the main deck below to overpower the gun-crews at their stations there.

On the quarter deck, towards which an overwhelming wave of buccaneers was sweeping, led by a one-eyed giant, who was naked to the waist, stood Don Miguel, numbed by despair and rage.  Above and behind him on the poop, Lord Julian and Miss Bishop looked on, his lordship aghast at the fury of this cooped-up fighting, the lady’s brave calm conquered at last by horror so that she reeled there sick and faint.

Soon, however, the rage of that brief fight was spent.  They saw the banner of Castile come fluttering down from the masthead.  A buccaneer had slashed the halyard with his cutlass.  The boarders were in possession, and on the upper deck groups of disarmed Spaniards stood huddled now like herded sheep.

Suddenly Miss Bishop recovered from her nausea, to lean forward staring wild-eyed, whilst if possible her cheeks turned yet a deadlier hue than they had been already.

Picking his way daintily through that shambles in the waist came a tall man with a deeply tanned face that was shaded by a Spanish headpiece.  He was armed in back-and-breast of black steel beautifully damascened with golden arabesques.  Over this, like a stole, he wore a sling of scarlet silk, from each end of which hung a silver-mounted pistol.  Up the broad companion to the quarter-deck he came, toying with easy assurance, until he stood before the Spanish Admiral.  Then he bowed stiff and formally.  A crisp, metallic voice, speaking perfect Spanish, reached those two spectators on the poop, and increased the admiring wonder in which Lord Julian had observed the man’s approach.

“We meet again at last, Don Miguel,” it said.  “I hope you are satisfied.  Although the meeting may not be exactly as you pictured it, at least it has been very ardently sought and desired by you.”

Speechless, livid of face, his mouth distorted and his breathing laboured, Don Miguel de Espinosa received the irony of that man to whom he attributed his ruin and more beside.  Then he uttered an inarticulate cry of rage, and his hand swept to his sword.  But even as his fingers closed upon the hilt, the other’s closed upon his wrist to arrest the action.

“Calm, Don Miguel!” he was quietly but firmly enjoined.  “Do not recklessly invite the ugly extremes such as you would, yourself, have practised had the situation been reversed.”

A moment they stood looking into each other’s eyes.

“What do you intend by me?” the Spaniard enquired at last, his voice hoarse.