Ishmaelites having arrived--'"

He stopped, for there was a step in the courtyard, a foot upon the
threshold, and a stranger entered. With the instinct of an old soldier,
the Commander, after one glance at the intruder, turned quickly toward
the wall, where his trusty Toledo hung, or should have been hanging. But
it was not there, and as he recalled that the last time he had seen that
weapon it was being ridden up and down the gallery by Pepito, the infant
son of Bautista, the tortilla-maker, he blushed and then contented
himself with frowning upon the intruder.

But the stranger's air, though irreverent, was decidedly peaceful. He
was unarmed, and wore the ordinary cape of tarpaulin and sea boots of
a mariner. Except a villainous smell of codfish, there was little about
him that was peculiar.

His name, as he informed the Commander, in Spanish that was more fluent
than elegant or precise--his name was Peleg Scudder. He was master of
the schooner GENERAL COURT, of the port of Salem in Massachusetts, on
a trading voyage to the South Seas, but now driven by stress of weather
into the bay of San Carlos. He begged permission to ride out the gale
under the headlands of the blessed Trinity, and no more. Water he
did not need, having taken in a supply at Bodega. He knew the strict
surveillance of the Spanish port regulations in regard to foreign
vessels, and would do nothing against the severe discipline and good
order of the settlement. There was a slight tinge of sarcasm in his tone
as he glanced toward the desolate parade ground of the Presidio and the
open unguarded gate. The fact was that the sentry, Felipe Gomez, had
discreetly retired to shelter at the beginning of the storm, and was
then sound asleep in the corridor.