Two men on board the craft were absorbed in thought—­the old man, and the skipper of the hooker, who must not be mistaken for the chief of the band.  The captain was occupied by the sea, the old man by the sky.  The former did not lift his eyes from the waters; the latter kept watch on the firmament.  The skipper’s anxiety was the state of the sea; the old man seemed to suspect the heavens.  He scanned the stars through every break in the clouds.

It was the time when day still lingers, but some few stars begin faintly to pierce the twilight.  The horizon was singular.  The mist upon it varied.  Haze predominated on land, clouds at sea.

The skipper, noting the rising billows, hauled all taut before he got outside Portland Bay.  He would not delay so doing until he should pass the headland.  He examined the rigging closely, and satisfied himself that the lower shrouds were well set up, and supported firmly the futtock-shrouds—­precautions of a man who means to carry on with a press of sail, at all risks.

The hooker was not trimmed, being two feet by the head.  This was her weak point.

The captain passed every minute from the binnacle to the standard compass, taking the bearings of objects on shore.  The Matutina had at first a soldier’s wind which was not unfavourable, though she could not lie within five points of her course.  The captain took the helm as often as possible, trusting no one but himself to prevent her from dropping to leeward, the effect of the rudder being influenced by the steerage-way.

The difference between the true and apparent course being relative to the way on the vessel, the hooker seemed to lie closer to the wind than she did in reality.  The breeze was not a-beam, nor was the hooker close-hauled; but one cannot ascertain the true course made, except when the wind is abaft.  When you perceive long streaks of clouds meeting in a point on the horizon, you may be sure that the wind is in that quarter; but this evening the wind was variable; the needle fluctuated; the captain distrusted the erratic movements of the vessel.  He steered carefully but resolutely, luffed her up, watched her coming to, prevented her from yawing, and from running into the wind’s eye:  noted the leeway, the little jerks of the helm:  was observant of every roll and pitch of the vessel, of the difference in her speed, and of the variable gusts of wind.  For fear of accidents, he was constantly on the lookout for squalls from off the land he was hugging, and above all he was cautious to keep her full; the direction of the breeze indicated by the compass being uncertain from the small size of the instrument.  The captain’s eyes, frequently lowered, remarked every change in the waves.

Once nevertheless he raised them towards the sky, and tried to make out the three stars of Orion’s belt.  These stars are called the three magi, and an old proverb of the ancient Spanish pilots declares that, “He who sees the three magi is not far from the Saviour.”