"After all, we are kinsmen. I dare say you would give me a bed," I went
on.

The second mate was quite close to us then.

Carlos looked at me with an expression of affection that a little shamed
my lightness of tone:

"I love you much more than a kinsman, Juan," he said. "I wish you could
come with me. I try to arrange it. Later, perhaps, I may be dead. I am
very ill."

He was undoubtedly ill. Campaigning in Spain, exposure in England in a
rainy time, and then the ducking when we came on board, had done him no
good. He looked moodily at the sea.

"I wish you could come. I will try------"

The mate had paused, and was listening quite unaffectedly, behind
Carlos' back.

A moment after Carlos half turned and regarded him with a haughty stare.

He whistled and walked away.

Carlos muttered something that I did not catch about "spies of that
pestilent Irishman." Then:

"I will not selfishly take you into any more dangers," he said. "But
life on a sugar plantation is not fit for you."