The boy looked timidly and suspiciously around, and thrusting a hand hurriedly into a pocket, he drew forth two bits of paper, each of which contained a scrawl, and both of which had evidently been much thumbed and studied.

“Here,” he said, in a voice that was suppressed nearly to a whisper.  “This was on the first page.  I was so frightened, lest the lady should be angry, that I did not look again till the next watch; and then,” turning the leaf, “I found this.”

Ludlow took the bit of paper first offered, and read, written in a child’s hand, the following extract: 

                           “I pray thee
    Remember, I have done thee worthy service;
    Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d
    Without or grudge or grumblings.”

“I thought that ’twas in mockery,” continued the boy, when he saw by the eye of the young captain that he had read the quotation; ’for ’twas very like, though more prettily worded, than that which I had said, myself!”

“And that was the second answer?”

“This was found in the first morning-watch,” the child returned, reading the second extract himself: 

                    “Thou think’st
    It much to tread the ooze of the salt deep,
    And run upon the sharp wind of the north!”

“I never dared to ask again.  But what matters that?  They say, the ground is rough and difficult to walk on; that earthquakes shake it, and make holes to swallow cities; that men slay each other on the highways for money, and that the houses I see on the hills must always remain in the same spot.  It must be very melancholy to live always in the same spot; but then it must be odd, never to feel a motion!”

“Except the occasional rocking of an earthquake.  Thou art better afloat, child;—­but thy master, this Skimmer of the Seas——­”

“—­Hist!” whispered the boy, raising a finger for silence.  “He has come up into the great cabin.  In a moment, we shall have his signal to enter.”

“A few light touches on the strings of a guitar followed, and then a symphony was rapidly and beautifully executed, by one in the adjoining apartment.

“Alida, herself, is not more nimble-fingered,” whispered the Alderman; “and I never heard the girl touch the Dutch lute, that cost a hundred Holland guilders, with a livelier movement!”

Ludlow signed for silence.  A fine, manly voice, of great richness and depth, was soon heard, singing to an accompaniment on the same instrument.  The air was grave, and altogether unusual for the social character of one who dwelt upon the ocean, being chiefly in recitative.  The words, as near as might be distinguished, ran as follows: 

                    My brigantine! 
    Just in thy mould, and beauteous in thy form,
    Gentle in roll, and buoyant on the surge,
    Light as the sea-fowl, rocking in the storm,
    In breeze and gale, thy onward course we urge;
                    My Water-Queen!