“No doubt he must be right, having been there.”

“No, that is more than I can say for him, though few men have gone deeper into the high latitudes on both sides of our own equator, than he.  One surely spoke—­here, in a line with yonder low star!”

“Was it not a water-fowl?”

“No gull—­ha! here we have the object, just within the starboard jib-boom-guy.  There comes the Frenchman in his pride, and ’twill be lucky for him who lives to count the slain, or to boast of his deeds!”

The master descended from the forecastle, and passed among the crew, with every thought recalled from its excursive flight to the duty of the moment.  Ludlow continued on the forecastle, alone.  There was a low, whispering sound in the ship, like that which is made by the murmuring of a rising breeze,—­and then all was still as death.

The Coquette lay with her head to seaward, the stern necessarily pointing towards the land.  The distance from the latter was less than a mile, and the direction of the ship’s hull was caused by the course of the heavy ground-swell, which incessantly rolled the waters on the wide beach of the island.  The head-gear lay in the way of the dim view, and Ludlow walked out on the bowsprit, in order that nothing should lie between him and the part of the ocean he wished to study.  Here he had not stood a minute, when he caught, first a confused and then a more distinct glimpse of a line of dark objects, advancing slowly towards the ship.  Assured of the position of his enemy, he returned in-board, and descended among his people.  In another moment he was again on the forecastle, across which he paced leisurely, and, to all appearance, with the calmness of one who enjoyed the refreshing coolness of the night.

At the distance of a hundred fathoms, the dusky line of boats paused, and began to change its order.  At that instant the first puffs of the land breeze were felt, and the stern of the ship made a gentle inclination seaward.

“Help her with the mizen!  Let fall the top-sail!” whispered the young captain to those beneath him.  Ere another moment, the flap of the loosened sail was heard.  The ship swung still further, and Ludlow stamped on the deck.

A round fiery light shot beyond the martingale, and the smoke rolled along the sea, outstripped by a crowd of missiles that were hissing across the water.  A shout, in which command was mingled with shrieks, followed, and then oar-blades were heard dashing the water aside, regardless of concealment.  The ocean lighted, and three or four boat-guns returned the fatal discharge from the ship.  Ludlow had not spoken.  Still alone on his elevated and exposed post, he watched the effects of both fires, with a commander’s coolness.  The smile that struggled about his compressed mouth, when the momentary confusion among the boats betrayed the success of his own attack, had been wild and exulting; but when he heard the rending of the plank beneath him, the heavy groans that succeeded, and the rattling of lighter objects that were scattered by the shot, as it passed with lessened force along the deck of his ship, it became fierce and resentful.