University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

It is now necessary to advance the time, and to transfer
the scene of our tale to another, but not a distant part of the
same sea. Let the reader fancy himself standing at the
mouth of a large bay, of some sixteen or eighteen miles
in diameter, in nearly every direction; though the shores
must be indented, with advancing promontories, and receding
curvatures, while the depth of the whole might possibly a little
exceed the greatest width. He will then occupy the spot at
which we wish to present to him one of the fairest panoramas
of earth. On his right stands a high, rocky island, of dark
tufa, rendered gay, amid all its magnificent formations, by
smiling vineyards and teeming villages, and interesting by
ruins that commemorate events as remote as the Cæsars.
A narrow passage of the blue Mediterranean separates this
island from a bold cape on the main, whence follows a succession
of picturesque, village-clad heights and valleys,
relieved by scenery equally bold and soft, and adorned by
the monkish habitations called in the language of the country,
Camaldolis, until we reach a small city which stands on
a plain that rises above the water between one and two hundred
feet, on a base of tufa, and the houses of which extend
to the very verge of the dizzy cliffs that limit its extent on
the north. The plain, itself, is like a hive, with its dwellings
and scenes of life, while the heights behind it teem with cottages
and the signs of human labour. Quitting this smiling
part of the coast, we reach a point, always following the
circuit of the bay, where the hills or heights tower into
ragged mountains, which stretch their pointed peaks upwards
to some six or seven thousand feet towards the

clouds, having sides now wild with precipices and ravines,
now picturesque with shooting-towers, hamlets, monasteries
and bridle-paths; and bases dotted, or rather lined, with
towns and villages. Here the mountain formation quits the
margin of the bay, following the coast southward, or running
into the interior of the country; and the shore, sweeping
round to the north and west, offers a glimpse into a back-ground
of broad plain, ere it meets a high, insulated, conical
mountain, which properly forms the head of the coast indentation.
The human eye never beheld a more affluent
scene of houses, cities, villages, vineyards and country residences,
than was presented by the broad breast of this
isolated mountain; passing which, a wider view is obtained
of the rich plain that seems to lie behind it, bounded, as it is,
by a wall of a distant and mysterious-looking, yet bold
range of the Apennines. Returning to the shore, which now
begins to incline more westwardly, we come to another swell
of tufa, which has all the characteristic fertility and abruptness
of that peculiar formation, a vast and populous town of
near half a million of souls being seated, in nearly equal
parts, on the limits of the plain and along the margin of the
water, or on the hill-sides, climbing to their summits. From
this point, the northern side of the bay is a confused mass
of villages, villas, ruins, palaces and vines, until we reach
its extremity; a low promontory, like its opposite neighbour.
A small island comes next, a sort of natural sentinel;
then the coast sweeps northward, into another and a smaller
bay, rich, to satiety, with relics of the past, terminating at a
point, some miles farther seaward, with a high, reddish,
sandy bluff, which almost claims to be a mountain. After
this we see two more islands, lying westward, one of which
is flat, fertile, and more populous, as is said, than any other
part of Europe of the same extent; while the other is a
glorious combination of pointed mountains, thronged towns,
fertile valleys, castles, country-houses, and the wrecks of
long-dormant volcanoes, thrown together in a grand, yet
winning confusion. If the reader will, to this description,
add a shore that has scarce a foot that is not interesting
with some lore of the past, extending from yesterday into the
darkest recesses of history, give life to the water-view with a
fleet of little latine-rigged craft, rendered more picturesque by
an occasional ship, dot the bay with countless boats of fishermen,
and send up a wreath of smoke from the summit of the
cone-like mountain that forms the head of the bay, he will
get an outline of all that strikes the eye, as the stranger
approaches Naples from the sea.

The zephyr was again blowing, and the daily fleet of
sparanaras, or undecked feluccas, that passes every morning,
at this season, from the south shore to the capital, and returns
at this hour, was stretching out from under Vesuvius;
some looking up as high as Massa; others heading towards
Sorrento, or Vico, or Persano, and many keeping more
before the wind, towards Castel a Mare, or the landings in
that neighbourhood. The breeze was getting to be so fresh,
that the fishermen were beginning to pull in towards the land,
breaking up their lines, which, in some places, had extended
nearly a league, and this, too, with the boats lying within
speaking distance of each other. The head of the bay,
indeed, was alive with craft, moving in different directions,
while a large fleet of English, Russians, Neapolitans, and
Turks, composed of two-deckers, frigates and sloops, lay at
their anchors, in front of the town. On board of one of the
largest of the former, was flying the flag of a rear-admiral
at the mizzen, the symbol of the commander's rank. A
corvette, alone, was under-way. She had left the anchorage
an hour before, and, with studding-sails on her starboard
side, was stretching diagonally across the glorious bay,
apparently heading towards the passage between Capri and
the Point of Campanella, bound to Sicily. This ship might
easily have weathered the island; but her commander, an
easy sort of person, chose to make a fair wind of it from the
start, and he thought, by hugging the coast, he might possibly
benefit by the land-breeze, during the night, trusting to
the zephyr that was then blowing, to carry him across the
Gulf of Salerno. A frigate, too, shot out of the fleet, under
her staysails, as soon as the westerly wind made; but, she
had dropped an anchor under-foot, and seemed to wait some
preparation, or orders, before taking her departure; her
captain being, at that moment, on board the flag-ship, on
duty with the rear-admiral. This was the Proserpine thirty-six,
Captain Cuffe, a vessel and an officer that are already
both acquaintances of the reader. About an hour before the

present scene opens, Captain Cuffe, in fact, had been called
on board the Foudroyant, by signal, where he had found a
small, sallow-looking, slightly-built man, with his right arm
wanting, pacing the deck of the fore-cabin, impatient for his
appearance.

“Well, Cuffe,” said this uninviting-looking personage,
twitching the stump of the maimed arm, “I see you are out
of the flock; are you all ready for sailing?”

“We have one boat ashore, after letters, my lord; as
soon as she comes off, we shall lift our anchor, which is only
under-foot.”

“Very well—I have sent the Ringdove to the southward,
on the same errand, and I see she is half-a-league from the
anchorage, on her way, already. This Mr. Griffin appears
to be a fine young man—I like his account of the way he
handled his fire-ship; though the French scoundrel did contrive
to escape! After all, this Rowl E—E— how do you
pronounce the fellow's name, Cuffe?—I never can make
anything out of their gibberish—”

“Why, to own the truth, Sir Horatio—I beg pardon—my
lord—there is something in the English grain of my feelings
that would prevent my ever learning French, had I been
born and brought up in Paris. There is too much Saxon in
me, to swallow words that half the time have no meaning.”

“I like you all the better, for that, Cuffe,” answered the
admiral, smiling, a change that converted a countenance that
was almost ugly, when in a state of rest, into one that was
almost handsome—a peculiarity that is by no means of rare
occurrence, when a strong will gives the expression to the
features, and the heart, at bottom, is really sound. “An
Englishman has no business with any Gallic tendencies.
This young Mr. Griffin seems to have spirit; and I look
upon it, always, as a good sign, when a young man volunteers
for a desperate thing of this sort—but, he tells me, he
is only second; where was your first, all the while?”

“Why, my lord, he got a little hurt in the brush of the
morning; and I would not let him go, as a matter of course.
His name is Winchester; I think you must remember him,
as junior of the Captain, at the affair off St. Vincent. Miller[1]

had a good opinion of him; and, when I went from the
Arrow to the Proserpine, he got him sent as my second.
The death of poor Drury made him first, in the natural
way.”

“I have some recollection of him, Cuffe.—That was a
brilliant day, and all its events should be impressed on my
mind. You tell me, Mr. Griffin fairly grappled the lugger's
cable?”

“Of that there can be no manner of doubt.—I saw the
two vessels foul of each other, with my night-glass — and,
seemingly, both were on fire—as plainly as I ever saw Vesuvius,
in a dark night.”

“And yet this Few-Folly has escaped!—Poor Griffin has
run a desperate risk, for little purpose.”

“He has, indeed, my lord.”

Here, Nelson, who had been pacing the cabin with quick
steps, while Cuffe stood, respectfully declining the gesture to
be seated, at the table in its centre, suddenly stopped, and
looked the Captain steadily in the face. The expression of
his countenance was now mild and earnest, and the pause
which preceded his words, gave the latter solemnity and
weight.

“The day will come, Cuffe,” he said, “when this young
man will rejoice that his design on these picaroons, Frenchmen
as they are, failed. Yes, from the bottom of his heart,
will he be glad.”

“My lord!”

“I know you think this strange, Captain Cuffe; but no
man sleeps the sounder for having burnt or blown up a
hundred of his fellow-creatures, like so many widows at a
suttee.—But we are not the less to commend those who did
what was certainly their duty.”

“Am I to understand, Lord Nelson, that the Proserpine
is not to destroy the Few-Folly, at every hazard, should we
again have the luck to fall in with her?”

“By no means, sir. Our orders are to burn, sink and

destroy. Such is England's policy, in this desperate war;
and it must be carried out. You know what we are contending
for, as well as I do; and it is a struggle that is not
to be carried on with courtesies; still, one would not wish to
see a glorious and sacred cause tarnished by inhumanity.
Men that fall in fair, manly combat, are to be envied rather
than pitied, since it is only paying the great debt of nature
a little sooner than might otherwise have happened; but
there is something revolting to humanity, in burning up our
fellow-creatures, as one would burn rags, after the plague.
Nevertheless, this lugger must be had, at any price; for
English commerce and English power are not to be cut up
and braved, in this audacious manner, with impunity. The
career of these French tigers must be stopped, at every sacrifice,
Captain Cuffe.”

“I know that, my lord; and I like a republican as little
as you can do; or His Majesty, himself, for that matter;
and, I take it, he has as little relish for the animal as flesh
and blood can give.”

“I know you do, Cuffe—I 'm sure you do; and I esteem
you all the more for it. It is a part of an Englishman's
religion, in times like these, to hate a Frenchman. I went
across the Channel, after the peace of '83, to learn their
language, but had so little sympathy with them, even in
peaceable times, as never to be able to make out to write a
letter in it, or even to ask intelligibly for the necessaries of
life.”

“If you can ask for anything, it far surpasses my efforts;
I never can tell head from stern, in their dialect.”

“It is an infernal jargon, Cuffe, and has got to be so confused
by their academies, and false philosophy, and infidelity,
that they will shortly be at a loss to understand it themselves.
What sort of names they give their ships, for instance,
now they have beheaded their king, and denounced
their God!—Who ever heard of christening a craft, as you
tell me this lugger is named, the `Few-Folly?' — I believe
I 've got the picaroon's title right?”

“Quite right—Griffin pronounces it so, though he has
got to be a little queerish, in his own English, by using so
much French and Italian. The young man's father was a
consul; and he has half-a-dozen foreign lingos stowed away

in his brain. He pronounces Folly, something broadish—
like Follay, I believe — but it means all the same thing.
Folly is folly, pronounce it as you will.”

Nelson continued to pace his cabin, working the stump
of his arm, and smiling half-bitterly; half in a sort of irony
that inclined him to be in a good-humour with himself.

“Do you remember the ship, Cuffe, we had that sharp
brush with, off Toulon, in old Agamemnon?” he said, after
making a turn or two, in silence? “I mean the dismasted
eighty-four, that was in tow of the frigate, and which we
peppered until their Gallic soup had some taste to it! Now,
do you happen to know her real name, in good honest English?”

“I do not, my lord. I remember, they said she was
called the Ca Ira; and I always supposed that it was the
name of some old Greek or Roman—or, perhaps, of one of
their new-fangled republican saints.”

“They!—D—n 'em, they 've got no saints, to name,
my good fellow, since they cashiered all the old ones!
There is something respectable in the names of a Spanish
fleet; and one feels that he is flogging gentlemen, at least,
while he is at work on them. No, sir, Ca Ira means, neither
more nor less, than `That 'll Do;' and, I fancy, Cuffe, they
thought of their own name more than once, while the old
Greek was hanging on their quarter, smashing their cabin-windows
for them! A pretty sound it would have been, had
we got her, and put her into our own service—His Majesty's
ship `That 'll Do,' 84, Captain Cuffe!”

“I certainly should have petitioned my Lords Commissioners
to change her name.”

“You would have done quite right.—A man might as
well sail in a man-of-war called the `Enough.' Then, there
was the three-decker, that helped her out of the scrape, the
Sans-Culottes, as the French call her;—I suppose, you know
what that means?”

“Not I, my lord; to own the truth, I 'm no scholar; and
am entirely without ambition, in that way. `Sans,' I suppose,
is the French for `saint;' but who `Culottes' was, I 've
not the least notion.”

Nelson smiled, and the turn the conversation had taken
appeared to give him secret satisfaction. If the truth were

known, something lay heavily on his mind; and, with one
of his strong impulses, his feelings disposed him to rush
from one extreme to the other, as is often the case, with men
who are controlled by such masters; more especially, if their
general disposition is to the right.

“You 're wrong, this time, my dear Cuffe,” he said; “for
`sans,' means `without,' in French, and `culottes,' means
`breeches.' Think of naming a three-decker, the `Without
Breeches!' I do not see how any respectable flag-officer
can mention such names, in his despatches, without a feeling
of awkwardness, that must come near to capsizing all his
philosophy. The line was formed by the Republic's ship,
the `That 'll Do,' leading, supported by the `Without
Breeches,' as her second astern!—Ha! Cuffe—D—e, sir,
if I 'd serve in a marine, that had such names to the ships!
It 's a thousand times worse, than all those saints, the Spaniards
tack on to their vessels—like a line of boats, towing a
ship up to her moorings!”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance
of a midshipman, who came down to say that a man and a
woman, from the shore, wished to see the rear-admiral, on
pressing business.

“Let them come down, sir,” answered Nelson; “I 've a
hard life of it, Cuffe; there is not a washerwoman, or a shopkeeper,
in Naples, who does not treat me exactly as if I
were a podestâ, and it were my duty to hear all the contentions
about lost clothes, and mislaid goods. His Majesty
must appoint a Lord Chief Justice of the Steerage, to administer
the law, for the benefit of the young gentlemen, or he 'll
soon get no officer to serve, with a flag at his mast-head.”

“Surely, my lord, the captains can take this weight off
your shoulders!”

“Ay, there are men, in the fleet, that can, and there are
men who do; but there are men who do not. But here
comes the plaintiff, I suppose—you shall hear the case, and
act as a puisne judge, in the matter.”

This was said as the cabin-door opened, and the expected
guests entered. They were, a man turned of fifty, and a
girl of nineteen. The former was a person of plain exterior,
abstracted air, and downcast look; but the latter had all
the expression, beauty, nature, and grace of mien, that so

singularly marked the deportment and countenance of Ghita
Caraccioli. In a word, the two visiters were Carlo Giuntotardi,
and his gentle niece. Nelson was struck with the
modesty of mien and loveliness of the latter, and he courteously
invited her to be seated, though he and Cuffe both
continued standing. A few efforts at making himself understood,
however, soon satisfied this renowned admiral that he
had need of an interpreter, his guests speaking no English,
and his own Italian being too imperfect to carry on anything
like a connected conversation. He hesitated an instant, and
then went to the door of the inner cabin, an apartment in
which voices had occasionally been heard, the whole time,
one of the speakers being evidently a female. Here he stood,
leaning against the bulkhead, as if in doubt; and then he
uttered his wishes.

“I must ask a service of you, which I would not think of
doing in any ordinary case,” he said, with a gentleness of
voice and manner that showed he addressed one who had
habitual influence over him. “I want an interpreter,
between myself and the second handsomest woman in the
kingdom of Naples; and I know no one so fit for the office,
as the first.”

“With all my heart, dear Nelson,” answered a full, rich,
female voice from within. “Sir William is busied in his
antiquities; and I was really getting to be ennuiéed, for want
of an occupation. I suppose you have the wrongs of some
injured lady to redress, in your capacity of Lord High Chancellor
of the Fleet.”

“I am yet ignorant of the nature of the complaint; but it
is not unlikely it will turn out to be something like that
which you suspect. Even in such a case, no better intercessor
can be required, than one who is so much superior to
the frailties and weaknesses of her sex, in general.”

The lady who now made her appearance from the inner
cabin, though strikingly handsome, had not that in her
appearance which would justify the implied eulogium of the
British admiral's last speech. There was an appearance of
art and worldliness, in the expression of her countenance,
that was only so much the more striking, when placed in
obvious contrast to the ingenuous nature and calm purity
that shone in every lineament of the face of Ghita. One

might very well have passed for an image of the goddess
Circe; while the other would have made no bad model for
a vestal, could the latter have borne the moral impression
of the sublime and heart-searching truths that are inculcated
by the real oracles of God. Then the lady was a woman
in the meridian of her charms, aided by all the cunning of
the toilet, and a taste that was piquant and peculiar, if not
pure; while the other stood in her simple, dark Neapolitan
boddice, and a head that had no other ornament than its own
silken tresses; a style of dress, however, that set off her
faultless form, and winning countenance, more than could
have been done by any of the devices of the mantua-maker
or the milliner. The lady betrayed a little surprise, and,
perhaps, a shade of uneasiness, as her glance first fell on
Ghita; but, much too good an actress to be disconcerted
easily, she smiled, and immediately recovered her ease.

“Is this the being, Nelson, who comes with such a petition?”
she demanded, with a touch of natural, womanly
sensibility, in her voice;—“and that poor old man, I dare
say, is the heart-stricken father.”

“As to the errand, you will remember, I know nothing,
as yet; and pledge myself to nothing.”

“Captain Cuffe, I hope I have the pleasure to see you
well.—Sir William joins the admiral, in hoping you will
make one of our little family party to-day, at dinner, and—”

“And what says the mistress—not of the house, but of
the ship?” put in Nelson, whose eyes had scarce turned an
instant from the face of the siren, since she entered the
fore-cabin.

“That she — always disclaiming the title, honourable
though it be—that she unites with all the rest, in inviting
Captain Cuffe to honour us with his company. Nelson tells
me you were one of his old Agamemnons, as he calls you
all, aged and young, men and boys, little and big; and I
love even the sound of the name. What a glorious title for
a ship—Agamemnon!—A Greek, led on by a true English
heart!”

“Ay, it is somewhat better than `That 'll Do,' and the
other affair, Ha! Cuffe!” returned the admiral, smiling, and
glancing at his subordinate—“But, all this time, we are

ignorant of the errand of this honest-looking Italian, and his
exceedingly innocent-looking companion.”

“Well, then, in this matter, gentlemen, I am only to be
regarded as a mere mouth-piece,” put in the lady—“an
echo, to repeat what reaches my ear, though it be an Irish
echo, which repeats in a different tongue from that in which
the sounds first reach it. Put your questions, my lord; they
shall be faithfully rendered, with all the answers that may
be given. I only hope Captain Cuffe will come out of this
affair, as innocent as he now looks.”

The two gentlemen smiled; but the trifling could not disturb
its subject, as he was profoundly ignorant of the existence
of the two strangers, five minutes before; while the
boldness of the allusions, rather suited the freedom of a ship,
and the habits of the part of the world in which they happened
to be.

“We will first inquire the name of this worthy man, if
you will condescend to ask it,” observed Nelson, to his fair
friend.

“Carlo Giuntotardi, noble lady—once a poor scholar, in
Napoli, here, and now a keeper of the prince's watch-towers,
on the heights of Argentaro,” was the quiet, but respectful
answer of the man, who, like his niece, had declined taking
a seat, a circumstance that left the whole party standing;
“Carlo Giuntotardi, illustrious lady.”

“A very good name, Signore, and one of which you have
no need to be ashamed. And thine?” turning to the girl.

“Ghita Caraccioli, Eccellenza; the sister's daughter of
this honest tower-keeper of the prince.”

Had a bomb exploded over the Foudroyant, Nelson certainly
would not have been as much startled; while the
lady's beautiful face assumed a look of dark resentment, not
unmingled with fear. Even Cuffe understood enough of the
sounds to catch the name, and he advanced a step, with
lively curiosity, and an anxious concern expressed on his
ruddy face. But these emotions soon subsided, the lady
first regaining her self-possession, though Nelson paced the
cabin five or six times, working the stump of his arm, before
he even looked up, again.

“I was about to ask if there never is to be an end of these
annoyances,” observed the lady, in English; “but there must

be some mistake in this. The house of Caraccioli is one of the
most illustrious of Italy, and can scarcely have any of this
class, who feel an interest in him of whom we are thinking.
I will, therefore, inquire further into this matter. Signorina,”
—changing the language to Italian, and speaking with severity,
like one who questioned what she heard—“Caraccioli
is a noble name; and is not often borne by the daughter
of any prince's tower-keepers!”

Ghita trembled, and she looked abashed. But she was
sustained by too high a principle, and was too innocent,
herself, to stand long rebuked, in the presence of guilt; and,
as the flush, which resembled that which so often passes over
her native skies, at even, left her countenance, she raised
her eyes to the dark-looking face of the lady, and gave her
answer.

“I know what your Eccellenza means,” she said, “and
feel its justice. Still, it is cruel to the child, not to bear the
name of her parent. My father was called Caraccioli; and
he left me his name as my sole inheritance. What may
have been his right to it, let my uncle say.”

“Speak, then, Signor Giuntotardi. First, give us the
history of this name; then tell us what has brought you
here.”

“Noble lady, my sister, as pious and innocent a woman
as ever lived in Italy, and now, blessed in heaven, married
Don Francesco Caraccioli, the son of Don Francesco of that
illustrious family, who now stands condemned to death, for
having led the fleet against the king; and Ghita, here, is
the only fruit of the union. It is true, that the church did
not authorize the connection which brought my niece's
father into being; but the noble admiral never hesitated to
acknowledge his son, and he gave him his name, until love
bound him in wedlock with a poor scholar's sister. Then,
indeed, his father turned his face from him; and death soon
removed both husband and wife from the reach of all earthly
displeasure. This is our simple story, noble and illustrious
signora; and the reason why my poor niece, here, bears a
name as great as that of Caraccioli.”

“You mean us to understand, Signor Giuntotardi, that
your niece is the grand-daughter of Don Francesco Caraccioli,
through a natural son of that unfortunate admiral?”

“Such is the fact, Signora. As my sister was honestly
married, I could do no less than bring up her daughter to
bear a name that her father was permitted to bear before
her.”

“Such things are common; and require no apology.
One question more, before I explain to the English admiral
what you have said.—Does Prince Caraccioli know of the
existence of this grand-daughter?”

“Eccellenza, I fear not. Her parents died so soon—I
loved the child so well—and there was so little hope that one
illustrious as he, would wish to acknowledge a connection
through the holy church, with persons humble as we, that I
have never done more to make my niece known, than to let
her bear the same name as her father.”

The lady seemed relieved, by this; and she now briefly
explained to Nelson, the substance of what the other had
said.

“It may be,” she added, “they are here on that errand,
concerning which we have, already, heard so much, and so
uselessly; but I rather think not, from this account; for
what interest can they feel in one who is absolutely a
stranger to them. It may be some idle conceit, however,
connected with this same affair. What is your wish, Ghita?
—This is Don Horatio Nelsoni, the illustrious English admiral,
of whom you have heard so much.”

“Eccellenza, I am sure of it,” answered Ghita, earnestly;
“my good uncle, here, has told you who we are; and you
may well guess our business. We came from St. Agata, on
the other side of the bay, only this morning, and heard from
a relation in the town, that Don Francesco had been seized,
that very hour. Since, we are told, that he has been condemned
to die, for treason against the king; and that, by
officers who met in this very ship. Some even say, signora,
that he is to meet his fate ere the sun set!”

“If this should be so, what reason is it that thou shouldst
give thyself concern?”

“Eccellenza, he was my father's father; and though I
never saw him, I know that the same blood runs in our
veins. When this is so, there should be the same feelings
in our hearts.”

“This is well, Ghita in appearance, at least; but thou

canst hardly feel much for one thou never saw'st, and who
has even refused to own thee for a child. Thou art young,
too, and of a sex that should ever be cautious; it is unwise
for men, even, to meddle with politics, in these troubled
times.”

“Signora, it is not politics that brings me here, but nature,
and duty, and pious love for my father's father.”

“What wouldst thou say, then?” answered the lady, impatiently;
“remember, thou occupiest one whose time is
precious, and of high importance to entire nations.”

“Eccellenza, I believe it; and will try to be brief. I wish
to beg my grandfather's life, of this illustrious stranger.
They tell me, the king will refuse him nothing; and he has
only to ask it of Don Ferdinando, to obtain it.”

Many would have thought the matured charms of the
lady superior to the innocent-looking beauty of the girl; but
no one could have come to such an opinion, who saw them
both, at that moment. While Ghita's face was radiant with
a holy hope, and the pious earnestness which urged her on,
a dark expression lowered about the countenance of the
English beauty, that deprived it of one of its greatest attractions,
by depriving it of the softness and gentleness of her
sex. Had there not been observers of what passed, it is
probable the girl would have been abruptly repulsed; but
management formed no small part of the character of this
woman; and she controlled her feelings, in order to effect
her purposes.

“This admiral is not a Neapolitan, but an Englishman,”
she answered; “and can have no concern with the justice
of your king. He would scarcely think it decent, to interfere
with the execution of the laws of Naples.”

“Signora, it is always decent to interfere to save life;
nay, it is more—it is merciful, in the eyes of God.”

“What canst thou know of this! A conceit that thou
hast the blood of the Caraccioli, has made thee forget thy
sex and condition, and placed a romantic notion of duty
before thine eyes.”

“No, signora, it is not so. For eighteen years have I
been taught that the unfortunate admiral was my grandfather;
but, as it has been his pleasure to wish not to see
me, never have I felt the desire to intrude on his time.

Before this morning, never has the thought that I have the
blood of the Caraccioli, crossed my mind; unless it was to
mourn for the sin of my grandmother; and even now, it has
come to cause me to mourn for the cruel fate that threatens
the days of her partner in guilt.”

“Thou art bold, to speak thus of thy parents, girl; and
they, too, of the noble and great!”

This was said with a flushed brow, and still more lowering
look; for, haply, there were incidents in the past life of that
lady, which made the simple language of a severe morality,
alike offensive to her ears and her recollections.

“It is not I, Eccellenza, but God, that speaketh thus.
The crime, too, is another reason why this great admiral
should use his influence to save a sinner from so hurried an
end. Death is terrible, to all, but to those who trust, with
heart and soul, to the mediation of the Son of God; but
it is doubly so, when it comes suddenly, and unlooked for.
It is true, Don Francesco is aged; but have you not remarked,
signora, that it is these very aged who become
hardened to their state, and live on, as if never to die?—I
mean those aged, who suffer youth to pass, as if the pleasures
of life are never to have an end.”

“Thou art too young to set up for a reformer of the
world, girl; and forgettest that this is the ship of one of the
greatest officers of Europe, and that he has many demands
on his time. Thou canst now go; I will repeat what thou
hast said.”

“I have another request to ask, Eccellenza—permission
to see Don Francesco; that I may, at least, receive his blessing.”

“He is not in this ship. Thou wilt find him on board the
Minerva frigate; no doubt, he will not be denied. Stop—
these few lines will aid thy request. Addio, signorina.”

“And may I carry hope with me, Eccellenza?—Think
how sweet life is to those who have passed their days, so
long, in affluence and honour. It would be like a messenger
from heaven, for a grandchild to bring but a ray of hope.”

“I authorize none. The matter is in the hands of the
Neapolitan authorities; and we English cannot meddle. Go,
now, both of you—the illustrious admiral has business of
importance, that presses.”

Ghita turned, and slowly and sorrowfully she left the
cabin. At its very door, she met the English lieutenant,
who was in charge of the unhappy prisoner, coming with a
last request that he might not be suspended like a thief, but
might, at least, die the death of a soldier. It would exceed
the limits set to our tale, were we to dwell on the conversation
which ensued; but every intelligent reader knows,
that the application failed.