He pressed Hurlstone’s hand as the latter resigned himself to the steward, and was half led, half supported, through the gloom of the lower deck.  Senor Perkins remained for an instant gazing after him with even more than his usual benevolence.  Suddenly his arm was touched almost rudely.  He turned, and encountered the lowering eyes of the Peruvian sailor.

“And what is to be done for me?” said the man roughly, in Spanish.

“You?”

“Yes.  Who’s to pay for this?” he pointed to his bandaged head.

Without changing his bland expression, Senor Perkins apparently allowed his soft black eyes to rest, as if fondly, on the angry pupils of the Peruvian.  The eyes of the latter presently sought the ground.

“My dear Yoto,” said Senor Perkins softly, “I scarcely think that this question of personal damage can be referred to the State.  I will, however, look into it.  Meantime, let me advise you to control your enthusiasm.  Too much zeal in a subordinate is even more fatal than laxity.  For the rest, son, be vigilant—­and peaceful.  Thou hast meant well, much shall be—­forgiven thee.  For the present, vamos!”

He turned on his heel, and ascended to the upper deck.  Here he found the passengers thrilling with a vague excitement.  A few brief orders, a few briefer explanations, dropped by the officers, had already whetted curiosity to the keenest point.  The Senor was instantly beset with interrogations.  Gentle, compassionate, with well-rounded periods, he related the singular accident that had befallen Mr. Hurlstone, and his providential escape from almost certain death.  “At the most, he has now only the exhaustion of the shock, from which a day of perfect rest will recover him; but,” he added deprecatingly, “at present he ought not to be disturbed or excited.”

The story was received by those fellow-passengers who had been strongest in their suspicions of Hurlstone’s suicide or flight, with a keen sense of discomfiture, only mitigated by a humorous perception of the cause of the accident.  It was agreed that a man whose ludicrous infirmity had been the cause of putting the ship out of her course, and the passengers out of their comfortable security, could not be wronged by attributing to him manlier and more criminal motives.  A somnambulist on shipboard was clearly a humorous object, who might, however, become a bore.  “It all accounts for his being so deuced quiet and reserved in the daytime,” said Crosby facetiously; “he couldn’t keep it up the whole twenty-four hours.  If he’d only given us a little more of his company when he was awake, he wouldn’t have gallivanted round at night, and we’d have been thirty miles nearer port.”  Equal amusement was created by the humorous suggestion that the unfortunate man had never been entirely awake during the voyage, and that he would now, probably for the first time, really make the acquaintance of his fellow-voyagers.  Listening to this badinage with bland tolerance, Senor Perkins no doubt felt that, for the maintenance of that perfect amity he so ardently apostrophized, it was just as well that Hurlstone was in his state-room, and out of hearing.