“And I should throw myself overboard the first chance I got.  I would have done so ten minutes ago, but the mate stopped me.”

His eye glistened with the same fatuous determination he had shown at first.  There was no doubt he would do as he said.

“I believe you would,” said the Senor benevolently; “but I see no present necessity for that, nor for any trouble whatever, if you will kindly tell me what I am to say.”

The young man’s eyes fell.

“I did try to conceal myself in the hold,” he said bluntly.  “I intended to remain there hidden while the ship was at Mazatlan.  I did not know until now that the vessel had changed her course.”

“And how did you believe your absence would be accounted for?” asked the Senor blandly.

“I thought it would be supposed that I had fallen overboard before we entered Mazatlan.”

“So that anybody seeking you there would not find you, and you would be believed to be dead?”

“Yes.”  He raised his eyes quickly to Senor Perkins again.  “I am neither a thief nor a murderer,” he said almost savagely, “but I do not choose to be recognized by any one who knows me on this side of the grave.”

Senor Perkins’ eyes sought his, and for an instant seemed to burn through the singular, fatuous mist that veiled them.

“My friend,” he said cheerfully, after a moment’s pause, “you have just had a providential escape.  I repeat it—­a most providential escape.  Indeed, if I were inclined to prophesy, I would say you were a man reserved for some special good fortune.”

The prisoner stared at him with angry amazement.

“You are a confirmed somnambulist.  Excuse me,” continued the Senor, with a soft, deprecating gesture; “you are, of course, unaware of it—­most victims of that singular complaint are, or at least fail to recognize the extent of their aberration.  In your case it has only been indicated by a profound melancholy and natural shunning of society.  In a paroxysm of your disorder, you rise in the night, fully dress yourself, and glide as unconsciously along the deck in pursuance of some vague fancy.  You pass the honest but energetic sailor who has just left us, who thinks you are a phantom, and fails to give the alarm; you are precipitated by a lurch of the ship through an open hatchway:  the shock renders you insensible until you are discovered and restored.”

“And who will believe this pretty story?” said the young man scornfully.

“The honest sailor who picked you up, who has related it in his own picturesque tongue to me, who will in turn interpret it to the captain and the other passengers,” replied Senor Perkins blandly.

“And what of the two mates who were here?” said the prisoner hesitatingly.

“They are two competent officers, who are quite content to carry out the orders of their superiors, and who understand their duty too well to interfere with the reports of their subordinates, on which these orders are based.  Mr. Brooks, the first officer, though fairly intelligent and a good reader of history, is only imperfectly acquainted with the languages, and Mr. M’Carthy’s knowledge of Spanish is confined to a few objurgations which generally preclude extended conversation.”