“You know of my belief in the infinite wisdom and benignity of events; you have, dear friend, with certain feminine limitations, shared it with me.  Could there have been a more perfect illustration of it than the power that led us here?  On a shore, historic in interest, beautiful in climate, hospitable in its people, utterly freed from external influences, and absolutely without a compromising future, you are landed, my dear friend, with your youthful companions.  From the crumbling ruins of a decaying Past you are called to construct an Arcadia of your own; the rudiments of a new civilization are within your grasp; the cost of existence is comparatively trifling; the various sums you have with you, which even in the chaos of revolution I have succeeded in keeping intact, will more than suffice to your natural wants for years to come.  Were I not already devoted to the task of freeing Quinquinambo, I should willingly share this Elysium with you all.  But, to use the glowing words of Mrs. M’Corkle, slightly altering the refrain—­

     ’Ah, stay me not!  With flying feet
     O’er desert sands, I rush to greet
     My fate, my love, my life, my sweet
       Quinquinambo!’

“I venture to intrust to your care two unpublished manuscripts of that gifted woman.  The dangers that may environ my present mission, the vicissitudes of battle by sea or land, forbid my imperiling their natural descent to posterity.  You, my dear friend, will preserve them for the ages to come, occasionally refreshing yourself, from time to time, from that Parnassian spring.

“Adieu! my friend.  I look around the familiar cabin, and miss your gentle faces.  I feel as Jason might have felt, alone on the deck of the Argo when his companions were ashore, except that I know of no Circean influences to mar their destiny.  In examining the state-rooms to see if my orders for the complete restoration of passengers’ property had been carried out, I allowed myself to look into yours.  Lying alone, forgotten and overlooked, I saw a peculiar jet hair-pin which I think I have observed in the coils of your tresses.  May I venture to keep this gentle instrument as a reminder of the superior intellect it has so often crowned?  Adieu, my friend.

“Ever yours, Leonidas Bolivar Perkins.”

“Well?” said Mrs. Markham impatiently, as Miss Keene remained motionless with the letter in her hand.

“It seems like a ridiculous nightmare!  I can’t understand it at all.  The man that wrote this letter may be mad—­but he is neither a pirate nor a thief—­and yet”—­

“He a pirate?” echoed Mrs. Markham indignantly; “He’s nothing of the kind!  It’s not even his fault!”

“Not his fault?” repeated Miss Keene; “are you mad, too?”

“No—­nor a fool, my dear!  Don’t you see?  It’s all the fault of Banks and Brimmer for compromising the vessel:  of that stupid, drunken captain for permitting it.  Senor Perkins is a liberator, a patriot, who has periled himself and his country to treat us magnanimously.  Don’t you see it?  It’s like that Banks and that Mrs. Brimmer to call him a pirate!  I’ve a good mind to give the Commander my opinion of them.”