When George Foster was again permitted to go on deck the sight that he

　　beheld was not calculated to comfort him in his misfortunes.

　　Several Moorish seamen were going about with bared legs and arms,

　　swishing water on the decks and swabbing up the blood, with which they

　　were bespattered. Most of these men were more or less wounded and

　　bandaged, for the crew of the merchantman they had attacked had offered

　　a desperate resistance, knowing well the fate in store for them if

　　captured.

　　The said merchantman, a large brig, sailed close alongside of the pirate

　　vessel with a prize crew on board. Her own men, who were Russians, had

　　been put in chains in the fore part of their vessel under the

　　forecastle, so as to be out of sight. Her officers and several

　　passengers had been removed to the pirate's quarter-deck. Among them

　　were an old gentleman of dignified bearing, and an elderly lady who

　　seemed to be supported, physically as well as mentally, by a tall,

　　dark-complexioned, noble-looking girl, who was evidently the daughter of

　　the old gentleman, though whether also the daughter of the elderly lady

　　young Foster could not discover, there being little or no resemblance

　　between them. The memory of his mother and sister strongly inclined the

　　sympathetic midshipman to approach the party and offer words of

　　consolation to the ladies. As he advanced to them for that purpose, a

　　doubt as to which language he should use assailed him. French, he knew,

　　was the language most likely to be understood, but a girl with such

　　magnificent black eyes must certainly be Spanish! His knowledge of

　　Spanish was about equal to that of an ill-trained parrot, but what of

　　that? Was he not a Briton, whose chief characteristic is to go in for

　　anything and stick at nothing?

　　We do not venture to write down what he said, but when he had said it

　　the blank look of the elderly lady and the peculiar look of the girl

　　induced him to repeat the speech in his broken--his very much broken--

　　French, whereupon the old gentleman turned to him gravely and said--

　　"My vife is Engleesh, an' my datter is Danish--no, not joost--vell, she

　　is 'af-an'-'af. Speak to dem in your nattif tong."

　　"_You_ are not English, anyhow, old boy," thought Foster, as he turned

　　with a mingled feeling of confusion and recklessness to the elderly

　　lady.

　　"Pardon me, madam," he said, "but from the appearance of--of--your--"

　　He was interrupted at this point by the captain, who, flushed and

　　blood-bespattered from the recent fight, came aft with a drawn scimitar

　　in his hand, and sternly ordered the young midshipman to go forward.

　　It was a humiliating position to be placed in; yet, despite the

　　"stick-at-nothing" spirit, he felt constrained to obey, but did so,

　　nevertheless, with an air of defiant ferocity which relieved his

　　feelings to some extent. The said feelings were utterly ignored by the

　　pirate captain, who did not condescend even to look at him after the

　　first glance, but turned to the other captives and ordered them, in

　　rather less stern tones, to "go below," an order which was promptly

　　obeyed.

　　On reaching the fore part of the vessel, Foster found several of the

　　crew engaged in bandaging each other's wounds, and, from the clumsy way

　　in which they went to work, it was very clear that they were much more

　　accustomed to inflict wounds than to bandage them.

　　Now it must be told that, although George Foster was not a surgeon, he

　　had an elder brother who was, and with whom he had associated constantly

　　while he was studying and practising for his degree; hence he became

　　acquainted with many useful facts and modes of action connected with the

　　healing art, of which the world at large is ignorant. Perceiving that

　　one of the pirates was bungling a very simple operation, he stepped

　　forward, and, with that assurance which results naturally from the

　　combination of conscious power and "cheek," took up the dressing of the

　　wound.

　　At first the men seemed inclined to resent the interference, but when

　　they saw that the "Christian" knew what he was about, and observed how

　　well and swiftly he did the work, they stood aside and calmly submitted.

　　Foster was interrupted, however, in the midst of his philanthropic work

　　by Peter the Great, who came forward and touched him on the shoulder.

　　"Sorry to 't'rupt you, sar, but you come wid me."

　　"Mayn't I finish this operation first?" said Foster, looking up.

　　"No, sar. My orders is prumptory."

　　Our amateur surgeon dropped the bandage indignantly and followed the

　　negro, who led him down into the hold, at the further and dark end of

　　which he saw several wounded men lying, and beside them one or two whose

　　motionless and straightened figures seemed to indicate that death had

　　relieved them from earthly troubles.

　　Amongst these men he spent the night and all next day, with only a

　　couple of biscuits and a mug of water to sustain him. Next evening

　　Peter the Great came down and bade him follow him to the other end of

　　the hold.

　　"Now, sar, you go in dere," said the negro, stopping and pointing to a

　　small door in the bulkhead, inside of which was profound darkness.

　　Foster hesitated and looked at his big conductor.

　　"'Bey orders, sar!" said the negro, in a loud, stern voice of command.

　　Then, stooping as if to open the little door, he added, in a low voice,

　　"Don' be a fool, massa. _Submit_! Das de word, if you don' want a

　　whackin'. It's a friend advises you. Dere's one oder prisoner dere,

　　but he's wounded, an' won't hurt you. _Go_ in! won't you?"

　　Peter the Great accompanied the last words with a violent thrust that

　　sent the hapless middy headlong into the dark hole, but as he closed and

　　fastened the door he muttered, "Don' mind my leetle ways, massa. You

　　know I's bound to be a hyperkrite."

　　Having thus relieved his conscience, Peter returned to the deck, leaving

　　the poor prisoner to rise and, as a first consequence, to hit his head

　　on the beams above him.

　　The hole into which he had been thrust was truly a "black hole," though

　　neither so hot nor so deadly as that of Calcutta. Extending his arms

　　cautiously, he touched the side of the ship with his left hand; with the

　　other he felt about for some time, but reached nothing until he had

　　advanced a step, when his foot touched something on the floor, and he

　　bent down to feel it, but shrank hastily back on touching what he

　　perceived at once was a human form.

　　"Pardon me, friend, whoever you are," he said quickly, "I did not mean

　　to--I did not know--are you badly hurt?"

　　But no reply came from the wounded man--not even a groan.

　　A vague suspicion crossed Foster's mind. The man might be dying of his

　　wounds. He spoke to him again in French and Spanish, but still got no

　　reply! Then he listened intently for his breathing, but all was as

　　silent as the tomb. With an irresistible impulse, yet instinctive

　　shudder, he laid his hand on the man and passed it up until it reached

　　the face. The silence was then explained. The face was growing cold

　　and rigid in death.

　　Drawing back hastily, the poor youth shouted to those outside to let

　　them know what had occurred, but no one paid the least attention to him.

　　He was about to renew his cries more loudly, when the thought occurred

　　that perhaps they might attribute them to fear. This kept him quiet,

　　and he made up his mind to endure in silence.

　　If there had been a ray of light, however feeble, in the hold, he

　　thought his condition would have been more bearable, for then he could

　　have faced the lifeless clay and looked at it; but to know that it was

　　there, within a foot of him, without his being able to see it, or to

　　form any idea of what it was like, made the case terrible indeed. Of

　　course he drew back from it as far as the little space allowed, and

　　crushed himself up against the side of the vessel; but that did no good,

　　for the idea occurred to his excited brain that it might possibly come

　　to life again, rise up, and plunge against him. At times this thought

　　took such possession of him that he threw up his arms to defend himself

　　from attack, and uttered a half-suppressed cry of terror.

　　At last nature asserted herself, and he slept, sitting on the floor and

　　leaning partly against the vessel's side, partly against the bulkhead.

　　But horrible dreams disturbed him. The corpse became visible, the eyes

　　glared at him, the blood-stained face worked convulsively, and he awoke

　　with a shriek, followed immediately by a sigh of relief on finding that

　　it was all a dream. Then the horror came again, as he suddenly

　　remembered that the dead man was still there, a terrible reality!

　　At last pure exhaustion threw him into a dreamless and profound slumber.

　　The plunging of the little craft as it flew southward before a stiff

　　breeze did not disturb him, and he did not awake until some one rudely

　　seized his arm late on the following day. Then, in the firm belief that

　　his dream had come true at last, he uttered a tremendous yell and

　　struggled to rise, but a powerful hand held him down, and a dark lantern

　　revealed a coal-black face gazing at him.

　　"Hallo! massa, hold on. I did tink you mus' be gone dead, for I

　　holler'd in at you 'nuff to bust de kittle-drum ob your ear--if you hab

　　one!"

　　"Look there, Peter," said Foster, pointing to the recumbent figure,

　　while he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

　　"Ah! poor feller. He gone de way ob all flesh; but he hoed sooner dan

　　dere was any occasion for--tanks to de captain."

　　As he spoke he held the lantern over the dead man and revealed the face

　　of a youth in Eastern garb, on whose head there was a terrible

　　sword-cut. As they looked at the sad spectacle, and endeavoured to

　　arrange the corpse, the negro explained that the poor fellow had been a

　　Greek captive who to save his life had joined the pirates and become a

　　Mussulman; but, on thinking over it, had returned to the Christian faith

　　and refused to take part in the bloody work which they were required to

　　do. It was his refusal to fight on the occasion of the recent attack on

　　the merchantman that had induced the captain to cut him down. He had

　　been put into the prison in the hold, and carelessly left there to bleed

　　to death.

　　"Now, you come along, massa," said the negro, taking up the lantern,

　　"we's all goin' on shore."

　　"On shore! Where have we got to?"

　　"To Algiers, de city ob pirits; de hotbed ob wickedness; de home ob de

　　Moors an' Turks an' Cabyles, and de cuss ob de whole wurld."

　　Poor Foster's heart sank on hearing this, for he had heard of the

　　hopeless slavery to which thousands of Christians had been consigned

　　there in time past, and his recent experience of Moors had not tended to

　　improve his opinion of them.

　　A feeling of despair impelled him to seize the negro by the arm as he

　　was about to ascend the ladder and stop him.

　　"Peter," he said, "I think you have a friendly feeling towards me,

　　because you've called me massa more than once, though you have no

　　occasion to do so."

　　"Dat's 'cause I'm fond o' you. I always was fond o' a nice smood young

　　babby face, an' I tooked a fancy to you de moment I see you knock Joe

　　Spinks into de lee scuppers."

　　"So--he was an Englishman that I treated so badly, eh?"

　　"Yes, massa, on'y you didn't treat him bad 'nuff. But you obsarve dat I

　　on'y calls you massa w'en we's alone an' friendly like. W'en we's in

　　public I calls you `sar' an' speak gruff an' shove you into black

　　holes."

　　"And why do you act so, Peter?"

　　"'Cause, don't you see, I's a hyperkrite. I tole you dat before."

　　"Well, I can guess what you mean. You don't want to appear too

　　friendly? Just so. Well, now, I have got nobody to take my part here,

　　so as you are a free man I wish you would keep an eye on me when we go

　　ashore, and see where they send me, and speak a word for me when it is

　　in your power. You see, they'll give me up for drowned at home and

　　never find out that I'm here."

　　"`A free man!'" repeated the negro, with an expansion of his mouth that

　　is indescribable. "You tink I's a free man! but I's a slabe, same as

　　yourself, on'y de diff'rence am dat dere's nobody to ransum _me_, so dey

　　don't boder deir heads 'bout me s'long as I do my work. If I don't do

　　my work I'm whacked; if I rebel and kick up a shindy I'm whacked wuss;

　　if I tries to run away I'm whacked till I'm dead. Das all. But I's not

　　free. No, no not at all! Hows'ever I's free-an'-easy, an' dat make de

　　pirits fond o' me, which goes a long way, for dere's nuffin' like lub!"

　　Foster heartily agreed with the latter sentiment and added--

　　"Well, now, Peter, I will say no more, for as you profess to be fond of

　　me, and as I can truly say the same in regard to you, we may be sure

　　that each will help the other if he gets the chance. But, tell me, are

　　you really one of the crew of this pirate vessel?"

　　"No, massa, only for dis viage. I b'longs to a old sinner called

　　Hassan, what libs in de country, not far from de town. He not a bad

　　feller, but he's obs'nit--oh! as obs'nit as a deaf an' dumb mule. If

　　you want 'im to go one way just tell him to go toder way--an' you've got

　　'im."

　　At that moment the captain's voice was heard shouting down the hatchway,

　　demanding to know what detained the negro and his prisoners. He spoke

　　in that jumble of languages in use at that time among the Mediterranean

　　nations called Lingua Franca, for the negro did not understand Arabic.

　　"Comin', captain, comin'," cried the negro, in his own peculiar

　　English--which was, indeed, his mother tongue, for he had been born in

　　the United States of America. "Now, den, sar,"

to Foster

, "w'en you

　　goin' to move you stumps? Up wid you!"

　　Peter emphasised his orders with a real kick, which expedited his

　　prisoner's ascent, and, at the same time, justified the negro's claim to

　　be a thorough-paced "hyperkrite!"

　　"Where's the other one?" demanded the captain angrily.

　　"Escaped, captain!" answered Peter.

　　"How? You must have helped him," cried the captain, drawing his

　　ever-ready sword and pointing it at the breast of the negro, who fell

　　upon his knees, clasped his great hands, and rolled his eyes in an

　　apparent agony of terror.

　　"Don't, captain. I isn't wuth killin', an' w'en I's gone, who'd cook

　　for you like me? De man escaped by jumpin' out ob his body. He's gone

　　dead!"

　　"Fool!" muttered the pirate, returning his sword to its sheath, "bind

　　that prisoner, and have him and the others ready to go on shore

　　directly."

　　In a few seconds all the prisoners were ranged between the cabin

　　hatchway and the mast. The hands of most of the men were loosely tied,

　　to prevent trouble in case desperation should impel any of them to

　　assault their captors, but the old Dane and the women were left

　　unfettered.

　　And now George Foster beheld, for the first time, the celebrated city,

　　which was, at that period, the terror of the merchant vessels of all

　　nations that had dealings with the Mediterranean shores. A small pier

　　and breakwater enclosed a harbour which was crowded with boats and

　　shipping. From this harbour the town rose abruptly on the side of a

　　steep hill, and was surrounded by walls of great strength, which

　　bristled with cannon. The houses were small and square-looking, and in

　　the midst, here and there, clusters of date-palms told of the almost

　　tropical character of the climate, while numerous domes, minarets, and

　　crescents told of the Moor and the religion of Mohammed.

　　But religion in its true sense had little footing in that piratical

　　city, which subsisted on robbery and violence, while cruelty and

　　injustice of the grossest kind were rampant. Whatever Islamism may have

　　taught them, it did not produce men or women who held the golden rule to

　　be a virtue, and certainly few practised it. Yet we would not be

　　understood to mean that there were none who did so. As there were

　　Christians in days of old, even in Caesar's household, so there existed

　　men and women who were distinguished by the Christian graces, even in

　　the Pirate City. Even there God had not left Himself without a witness.

　　As the vessel slowly entered the harbour under a very light breeze, she

　　was boarded by several stately officers in the picturesque costume--

　　turbans, red leathern boots, etcetera--peculiar to the country. After

　　speaking a few minutes with the captain, one of the officers politely

　　addressed the old Dane and his family through an interpreter; but as

　　they spoke in subdued tones Foster could not make out what was said.

　　Soon he was interrupted by a harsh order from an unknown Moor in an

　　unknown tongue.

　　An angry order invariably raised in our hero the spirit of rebellion.

　　He flushed and turned a fierce look on the Moor, but that haughty and

　　grave individual was accustomed to such looks. He merely repeated his

　　order in a quiet voice, at the same time translating it by pointing to

　　the boat alongside. Foster felt that discretion was the better part of

　　valour, all the more that there stood at the Moor's back five or six

　　powerful Arabs, who seemed quite ready to enforce his instructions.

　　The poor middy glanced round to see if his only friend, Peter the Great,

　　was visible, but he was not; so, with a flushed countenance at thus

　　being compelled to put his pride in his pocket, he jumped into the boat,

　　not caring very much whether he should break his neck by doing so with

　　tied hands, or fall into the sea and end his life in a shark's maw!

　　In a few minutes he was landed on the mole or pier, and made to join a

　　band of captives, apparently from many nations, who already stood

　　waiting there.

　　Immediately afterwards the band was ordered to move on, and as they

　　marched through the great gateway in the massive walls Foster felt as if

　　he were entering the portals of Dante's Inferno, and had left all hope

　　behind. But his feelings misled him. Hope, thank God! is not easily

　　extinguished in the human breast. As he tramped along the narrow and

　　winding streets, which seemed to him an absolute labyrinth, he began to

　　take interest in the curious sights and sounds that greeted him on every

　　side, and his mind was thus a little taken off himself.

　　And there was indeed much there to interest a youth who had never seen

　　Eastern manners or customs before. Narrow and steep though the streets

　　were--in some cases so steep that they formed flights of what may be

　　styled broad and shallow stairs--they were crowded with bronzed men in

　　varied Eastern costume; Moors in fez and gay vest and red morocco

　　slippers; Turks with turban and pipe; Cabyles from the mountains; Arabs

　　from the plains; water-carriers with jar on shoulder; Jews in sombre

　　robes; Jewesses with rich shawls and silk kerchiefs as headgear; donkeys

　　with panniers that almost blocked the way; camels, and veiled women, and

　　many other strange sights that our hero had up to that time only seen in

　　picture-books.

　　Presently the band of captives halted before a small door which was

　　thickly studded with large nails. It seemed to form the only opening in

　　a high dead wall, with the exception of two holes about a foot square,

　　which served as windows. This was the Bagnio, or prison, in which the

　　slaves were put each evening after the day's labour was over, there to

　　feed and rest on the stone floor until daylight should call them forth

　　again to renewed toil. It was a gloomy courtyard, with cells around it

　　in which the captives slept. A fountain in the middle kept the floor

　　damp and seemed to prove an attraction to various centipedes, scorpions,

　　and other noisome creatures which were crawling about.

　　Here the captives just arrived had their bonds removed, and were left to

　　their own devices, each having received two rolls of black bread before

　　the jailor retired and locked them up for the night.

　　Taking possession of an empty cell, George Foster sat down on the stone

　　floor and gazed at the wretched creatures around him, many of whom were

　　devouring their black bread with ravenous haste. The poor youth could

　　hardly believe his eyes, and it was some time before he could convince

　　himself that the whole thing was not a dream but a terrible reality.