Once I asked her if she wished to go back to Spain.

She shivered and answered no, for there dwelt one who was her enemy and would kill her; also her heart was with us children and our father.

I wondered if this man who sought to kill my mother was the same as he of whom my father had spoken as 'the chief of the devils,' but I only answered that no man could wish to kill one so good and beautiful.
'Ah! my boy,' she said, 'it is just because I am, or rather have been, beautiful that he hates me.

Others would have wedded me besides your dear father, Thomas.' And her face grew troubled as though with fear.
Now when I was eighteen and a half years old, on a certain evening in the month of May it happened that a friend of my father's, Squire Bozard, late of the Hall in this parish, called at the Lodge on his road from Yarmouth, and in the course of his talk let it fall that a Spanish ship was at anchor in the Roads, laden with merchandise.

My father pricked up his ears at this, and asked who her captain might be.