But the captain of the Seven Angels was far
from being a silent member of the party; he
talked well and pleasantly of the interior of
Russia, of seafaring experiences during the four
years he had filled his present post, and not
only of foreign ports but also of foreign capitals,
their architecture, picture-galleries, and so forth.
His language and anecdotes were those of a
well-informed person, and I took much pleasure
in his conversation, but after a time an odd
fancy seized upon me. I fancied that Captain
Veltrivitch was afraid of Spiridion, that he
watched his eye as a dog watches the countenance
of his master, and that, according to the
expression of Spiridion's bright face, so the
captain's vivacity rose or fell, and his flow of
words slackened or increased. Nay, such is the
power of imagination, that I thought that once
or twice I intercepted a stolen look of command,
a quick imperious flash, in the eyes of the young
supercargo, and that each time this occurred the
old captain, whose spirits had begun to flag, and
whose features were sinking into moody repose,
started, made an effort over his own sad
thoughts, and took up the ball of conversation
with the utmost good humour. And yet I must
have been mistaken, for how absurd was the
notion that such a careless butterfly nature as
that of gay Spiridion could exercise authority
over that of the stout old seaman, in whose praise
Mr. Brackley was loud when the captain bade
us good night, and departed the first of the
company.

"A noble old fellow!" said the merchant,
warmly, rubbing his broad hands together; " he
is about the only Russian commander to whose
care I should have liked to entrust my girl.
He has children of his own. By the way,
Colotroni, has anything been heard lately of that
son of his in Siberia?"

Spiridion gave a little start, but immediately
recovered his composure.

"Not to my knowledge," he answered; " the
skipper never cares to talk on that subject.
Perhaps the young man is dead. At any rate,
he is dead to the world."

"No chance of his pardon, I suppose?" said
Mr. Brackley, in a meditative way, for the pain
of parting with his daughter had made him
unusually sympathetic with the griefs of others.

Spiridion was afraid there was no such chance.
Still, greater offenders had been released before
the expiration of their sentence, and no one
knew when some whim of clemency might
possess the imperial mind, or the minds of the
Czar's ministers. And, for the sake of the poor
gallant old father, he, Spiridion, would be glad
to hear that the younger Veltrivitch had a
chance of pardon; to which Mr. Brackley
heartily, and Mrs. Brackley timidly, assented.

"At ten to-morrow, then, I shall bring
Marian on board. You sail at noon, sharp?"
said the merchant, as he bade us good night.

"Sharp! The captain is as punctual as Time
himself," answered Spiridion, as he waved his
hand in adieu. We walked homewards arm
in arm, since my lodging was near the waterside,
where also stood the Colotroni's house, and,
as I went on through the moonlit streets, I
could not help reverting to the theme of Captain.
Veltrivitch and his son. "A political offence,
of course?" I hinted.

Spiridion made answer in his usual airy way:

"Political —  to be sure it was. In Russia, you
know, we move in an atmosphere of intrigues,
domestic or politic; the very air is thick with
plots. I see you are dying to know the history
of the Veltrivitch family, and though I am not
fully conversant with its details, I can at least
give you a sketch. The captain was well off; a
noble, of course, or he could not have been an
officer in the Russian navy. He doted on his
son, young Demetrius, who was a lieutenant in
his own ship. Well, the lad picked up dangerous
ideas, dangerous friends, got mixed up in a
conspiracy, and the whole affair was found out, as
always happens. The youngster would not have
been very severely dealt with, but unfortunately
he had laid hands on a certain chest of silver
roubles belonging to the government, and which,
in his amiable zeal, he had devoted to the use of
his visionary republic; this was a great fault,
and he has been in Siberia these five years."

"And the father?"

"Old Veltrivitch was tried by court-martial,
on suspicion of being his son's accomplice. I
really don't know whether he was acquitted, or
whether the emperor put a stop to the proceedings.
But I am certain that he resigned his
commission voluntarily, and, soon after, he came
here, and became a merchant skipper. He was
all but ruined; I believe his son had been very
extravagant, and so forth, before the crash came,
but what does a poor Sybarite like myself know
of plots and schemes? Eh, my dear semi-countryman,
youth should be a time for enjoyment.
You won't come to the circle and have
a few last games of dominoes, and some punch?
Then good night, and a riverderla!"

And I heard him humming an opera tune as
he went up the marble steps. For the first time
this gaiety of his grated somewhat on my
feelings; his tone in speaking of old Veltrivitch
and his misfortunes had been careless, almost
exultant, and I began to doubt whether the
exquisite urbanity of my Greek friend might not
hide a very callous heart. And yet I blamed
myself, as I strode on, for entertaining harsh
thoughts of Spiridion, or expecting too much
sensibility from that light and shallow nature.
The young Greek had been kind to me, kind to
the merchant, our late host, kind even to
poor neglected Mrs. Brackley, kind to Marian,
our future fellow-passenger, to whom his bearing
was brotherly and frank, and it was too much to
expect that he should always take a serious view
of the misfortunes of others. And having reasoned
thus, I laid my head upon the pillow, and dreamed
of England and the dear ones at home.

We weighed anchor next day, with every
prospect of fine weather. Only a few rounded
masses of white cloud, like so many woolpacks,
rolled languidly across the deep blue of the sky,
the little waves glistened as if modelled in