In two minutes Griffin was on deck, hauling the yards, and clearing away to make sail.  As usual, the wind was light at the southward again, and the course would be nearly before it.  Studding-sail booms were to be run out, the sails set, and the ship’s head laid to the northward, keeping a little to seaward of the chase.  At this moment the Proserpine had the Point of Piane, and the little village of Abate, nearly abeam.  The ship might have been going four knots through the water, and the distance across the mouth of the bay was something like thirty miles.  Of course, eight hours would be necessary to carry the frigate over the intervening space should the wind stand, as it probably would not, at that season of the year.  A week later, and strong southerly winds might be expected, but that week was as interminable as an age, for any present purpose.

Half-an-hour’s trial satisfied all on the deck of the Proserpine, that the chase was keeping off, like themselves, and that she was standing toward the mountains of Amalfi.  Her progress, too, was about equal to that of the frigate, for, dead before the wind, the latter ship was merely a good sailer; her great superiority commencing only when she brought the breeze forward of the beam.  It has been supposed that the stranger, when first seen, was about fifteen miles distant, his canvas appearing both small and shapeless; but some doubts now began to be entertained, equally as to his rig, his size, and his distance.  If a large or a lofty vessel, of course he must be materially further off, and if a large or lofty vessel it could not be le Feu-Follet.

The other frigate took her cue from the Proserpine, and stood across for the northern side of the gulf; a certain proof that nothing was visible, from her mast-heads, to lead her in any other direction.  Two hours, however, satisfied all on board the latter ship that they were on a wrong scent, and that the vessel to leeward was their own consort, the sloop; Lyon having, in his eagerness to get the prize before she could be seen from the other ships, carried the Ring-dove quite within the bay, and thus misled Cuffe and Sir Frederick.

“There can no longer be any doubt!” exclaimed the captain of the Proserpine, dropping his glass, with vexation too strongly painted in his manner to be mistaken; “that is a ship; and, as you say, Winchester, it must be the Ringdove; though what the devil Lyon is doing away in there with her, unless he sees something close under the land, is more than I can tell.  As there is clearly nothing in this quarter, we will stand on, and take a look for ourselves.”