Still no answer; and, jumping to the wheel, the captain jammed it down, and they came up flying into the wind.  Leaving the wheel to the frightened seaman, he sprang into the port rail, to see where the stranger would strike them.  As he did so, that mysterious craft flew by, and the whole sea seemed lighted up by a strange illumination.  It was like a terrible dream—­so wild, so supernatural and unearthly.  As Captain Lane stood by the port rail, he saw right under his quarter, a large, low, black brig, with her decks crowded with men, and guns protruding from her ports; while on the weather rail, clinging with one hand to the shrouds, stood a strange, demoniacal-looking figure, holding in his outstretched hand, above the water, a burning blue light.  On the quarter-deck a little knot of men seemed standing, a short distance apart from them was a strikingly handsome man, who, from his air of superiority, Lane at once knew to be the commander.  His perfectly poised and graceful attitude, and thorough composure, as he removed a cigar from his mouth and motioned an order to the helmsman, struck the beholder as wonderful.

In an instant the whole thing flashed upon the captain—­he was a pirate!  He had run under the stern of the brig and burned a blue light to read the name of the vessel, and see if the bird was worth plucking.

Captain Lane’s decision was instantaneous.  He knew that the white feather never helped one out with such fellows.  It was all the work of an instant.  The stranger ran a couple of lengths astern the Ocean Star, swung his main-yard aback and hailed; but while the bold buccaneer was doing this, Captain Lane had performed an equally sea-manlike manoeuvre.  He caught his sails aback, and his vessel having stern way, he shifted his helm, backed her round, and, filling away on the other tack, stood directly for the pirate.

It was the stranger’s time to hail now.  The Ocean Star was a sharp, strong, fast-sailing vessel, and was under good headway and perfect control.  Captain Lane then acted hurriedly, but with precision, giving his orders to his mate and helmsman, and, seizing the cabin lantern and his speaking trumpet, he jumped upon the topgallant forecastle, and, holding up his lamp, made the master mason’s “hailing sign of distress.”  He then hailed through his trumpet, in quick, determined syllables: 

“Brig ahoy!  Unless you swear as a man or as a Mason that you will not molest me, as true as there is a God, we will sink together!”

Quick as thought, the answer came back through the trumpet, clear and distinct: 

“I swear as a Mason!  Hard up your helm!”

“Hard up your helm!” the captain shouted aft, and, paying off like a bird, the Ocean Star swept by the stranger’s stern near enough to almost touch her.  As they went sailing past her, it became Captain Lane’s turn to bend forward with a lantern, and ascertain who his new acquaintance was.  There, painted in blood-red letters on the black stern, was the name