“S’nore, you show a kind heart, and will one day reap the reward of such generous feelings.  I wish I knew the name of so humane a gentleman, that I might mention him in my prayers.”

“They’ll never fancy that Captain Rule said that,” muttered Ithuel, grinning.

“As for my name, friend, it’s no great matter.  They call me Clinch, which is a good fast word to sail under, too; but it has no handle to it, other than of a poor devil of a master’s-mate; and that, too, at an age when some men carry broad pennants.”

This was said bitterly, and in English; when uttered, the supposed Italian was wished a “buona sera” and the gig proceeded.

“That is un brave” said Raoul, with emphasis, as they departed.  “If ever I meet with Monsieur Cleench, he will learn that I do not forget his good wishes. Peste! if there were a hundred such men in the British marine, Etooelle, we might love it.”

“They’re fiery serpents, Captain Rule, and not to be trusted, any on ’em.  As for fine words, I might have fancied myself a cousin of the king’s, if I’d only put my name to their shipping articles.  This Mr. Clinch is well enough in the main; being his own worst inimy, in the way of the grog pitcher.”

“Boat, ahoy!” shouted Clinch again, now about a hundred yards distant, having passed toward the cape.  Raoul and Ithuel mechanically ceased rowing, under the impression that the master’s-mate had still something to communicate.

“Boat, ahoy!  Answer at once, or you’ll hear from me,” repeated Clinch.

“Aye, aye,” answered another voice, which, in fact, was Yelverton’s; “Clinch, is that you?”

“Aye, aye, sir—­Mr. Yelverton, is it not?  I think I know the voice, sir.”

“You are quite right; but make less noise—­who was that you hailed a minute or two since?”

Clinch began to answer; but, as the two gigs were approaching each other all the time, they were soon so near as to render it unnecessary to speak loud enough to be heard at any distance.  All this time, Raoul and Ithuel lay on their oars, almost afraid to stir the water, and listening with an attention that was nearly breathless.  They were satisfied that the oars of the English were now muffled; a sign that they were in earnest in the pursuit, and bent on making a thorough search.  The two gigs could not be more than a hundred yards from the yawl, and Ithuel knew that they were the two fastest-rowing boats of the English fleet—­so fast, indeed, that Cuffe and his lieutenants had made several successful matches with them, against the officers of different vessels.

“Hist!” said Ghita, whose heart was in her mouth.  “Oh!  Raoul, they come!”