Mynheer Von Stroom, who considered his dignity at variance with his appearance, and who perhaps was aware that majesty deprived of its externals was only a jest, thought it advisable to accept the offer.  After some trouble, with the assistance of the seamen, the bear was secured and dragged away from the cabin, much against his will, for he had still some honey to lick off the curls of the full-bottomed wigs.  He was put into durance vile, having been caught in the flagrant act of burglary on the high seas.  This new adventure was the topic of the day, for it was again a dead calm, and the ship lay motionless on the glassy wave.

“The sun looks red as he sinks,” observed Hillebrant to the captain, who with Philip was standing on the poop; “we shall have wind before to-morrow, if I mistake not.”

“I am of your opinion,” replied Mynheer Kloots.  “It is strange that we do not fall in with any of the vessels of the fleet.  They must all have been driven down here.”

“Perhaps they have kept a wider offing.”

“It had been as well if we had done the same,” said Kloots.  “That was a narrow escape last night.  There is such a thing as having too little as well as having too much wind.”

A confused noise was heard among the seamen who were collected together, and looking in the direction of the vessel’s quarter, “A ship!  No—­Yes, it is!” was repeated more than once.

“They think they see a ship,” said Schriften, coming on the poop.  “He! he!”

“Where?”

“There in the gloom!” said the pilot, pointing to the darkest quarter in the horizon, for the sun had set.

The captain, Hillebrant, and Philip directed their eyes to the quarter pointed out, and thought they could perceive something like a vessel.  Gradually the gloom seemed to clear away, and a lambent pale blaze to light up that part of the horizon.  Not a breath of wind was on the water—­the sea was like a mirror—­more and more distinct did the vessel appear, till her hull, masts and yards were clearly visible.  They looked and rubbed their eyes to help their vision, for scarcely could they believe that which they did see.  In the centre of the pale light, which extended about fifteen degrees above the horizon, there was indeed a large ship about three miles distant; but, although it was a perfect calm, she was to all appearance buffeting in a violent gale, plunging and lifting over a surface that was smooth as glass, now careening to her bearing, then recovering herself.  Her topsails and mainsail were furled, and the yards pointed to the wind; she had no sail set, but a close-reefed fore-sail, a storm stay-sail, and trysail abaft.  She made little way through the water, but apparently neared them fast, driven down by the force of the gale.  Each minute she was plainer to the view.  At last, she was seen to wear, and in so doing, before she was brought to the wind on the other tack, she was so close to them that they could distinguish the men on board:  they could see the foaming water as it was hurled from her bows; hear the shrill whistle of the boatswain’s pipes, the creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the complaining of her masts; and then the gloom gradually rose, and in a few seconds she had totally disappeared.