Schriften scowled as he walked away; he appeared to have some fear of Philip, although it was not equal to his hate.  He now resumed his former attempts of stirring up the ship’s company against Philip, declaring that he was a Jonas, who would occasion the loss of the ship, and that he was connected with the Flying Dutchman.  Philip very soon observed that he was avoided; and he resorted to counter-statements, equally injurious to Schriften, whom he declared to be a demon.  The appearance of Schriften was so much against him, while that of Philip, on the contrary, was so prepossessing, that the people on board hardly knew what to think.  They were divided:  some were on the side of Philip—­some on that of Schriften; the captain and many others looking with equal horror upon both, and longing for the time when they could be sent out of the vessel.

The captain, as we have before observed, was very superstitious, and very fond of his bottle.  In the morning he would be sober and pray; in the afternoon he would be drunk, and swear at the very saints whose protection he had invoked but a few hours before.

“May Holy Saint Antonio preserve us, and keep us from temptation,” said he, on the morning after a conversation with the passengers about the Phantom Ship.  “All the saints protect us from harm,” continued he, taking off his hat reverentially, and crossing himself.  “Let me but rid myself of these two dangerous men without accident, and I will offer up a hundred wax candles, of three ounces each, to the shrine of the Virgin, upon my safe anchoring off the tower of Belem.”  In the evening he changed his language.

“Now, if that Maldetto Saint Antonio don’t help us, may he feel the coals of hell yet; damn him and his pigs too; if he has the courage to do his duty, all will be well; but he is a cowardly wretch, he cares for nobody, and will not help those who call upon him in trouble.  Carambo! that for you,” exclaimed the captain, looking at the small shrine of the saint at the bittacle, and snapping his fingers at the image—­“that for you, you useless wretch, who never help us in our trouble.  The Pope must canonise some better saints for us, for all we have now are worn out.  They could do something formerly, but now I would not give two ounces of gold for the whole calendar; as for you, you lazy old scoundrel,”—­continued the captain, shaking his fist at poor Saint Antonio.

The ship had now gained off the southern coast of Africa, and was about one hundred miles from the Lagullas coast; the morning was beautiful, a slight ripple only turned over the waves, the breeze was light and steady, and the vessel was standing on a wind, at the rate of about four miles an hour.

“Blessed be the holy saints,” said the captain, who had just gained the deck; “another little slant in our favour, and we shall lay our course.—­Again I say, blessed be the holy saints, and particularly our worthy patron Saint Antonio, who has taken under his peculiar protection the Nostra Senora da Monte.  We have a prospect of fine weather; come, signors, let us down to breakfast, and after breakfast we will enjoy our cigarros upon the deck.”