"The steward, Senor, with your clothes?"

"Bring them in."

Gunsaules entered, the garments over his arm, and shuffled in his
peculiar gliding manner across to the bunk where he laid out the
pieces carefully one by one, evidently proud of his selection.

"Quite a beautiful piece of goods, Senor," he ventured, speaking so
softly I could barely distinguish the words above the crash of the
waves on the ship's side. "And most excellently tailored. I do not
remember whether these came out of the _Adair_ or _La Rosalie_--the
French ship most likely, for as you see, Senor, there is quite the
Parisian cut to this coat. I mark these things for I was once
apprenticed to a tailor in Madrid."

He stood fondling the garment lovingly, the expression of his face so
solemnly interested, I had difficulty in suppressing a laugh.

"Some change in your trade, Gunsaules. Did you take this one up from
choice? You do not look to me like a fighting man."

He glanced apprehensively at the open door, speaking even lower than
before, if possible.

"No more am I, Senor. The blood make me faint. I go hungry in Santo
Domingo--God forgive me for ever going there!--and, to keep from
starving I took this job."