Shortly afterwards, he re-appeared with the information that the captive was safe below; and giving the necessary directions to his crew, before many minutes had elapsed, the Zeeslang spread her canvass to the first breeze of morning. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. “You don’t want to go?” “No.
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