“She stood a moment as a Pythoness
    Stands on her tripod, agonised and full
  Of inspiration gather’d from distress,
    When all the heart-strings, like wild horses, pull
  The heart asunder; then, as more or less
    Their speed abated or their strength grew dull,
  She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees,
  And bow’d her throbbing head o’er trembling knees.”

       BYRON.

It was with deep regret that Newton gave directions for the ship’s head to be again directed on her course to England; but the property under his charge was of too great value to warrant risking it by cruising after the pirates, the superior sailing of whose vessel afforded no hopes of success.  The melancholy situation of Madame de Fontanges threw a gloom over the party, which was communicated even to the seamen; while the anguish of M. de Fontanges, expressed with all the theatrical violence characteristic of his nation, was a source of continual reminiscence and regret.  They had been four days on their voyage, making little progress with the light and baffling winds, when they were shrouded in one of those thick fogs which prevail in the latitude of the Cape de Verds, and which was rendered more disagreeable by a mizzling rain.

On the sixth day, about twelve o’clock, the horizon cleared to the northward, and the fog in that quarter was rolled away by a strong breeze which rippled along the water.  Newton, who was on deck, observed the direction of the wind to be precisely the reverse of the little breeze to which their sails had been trimmed; and the yards of the Windsor Castle were braced round to meet it.  The gust was strong, and the ship, laden as she was, careened over to the sudden force of it, as the top-gallant sheets and halyards were let fly by the directions of the officer of the watch.  The fog, which had still continued thick to leeward, now began to clear away; and, as the bank dispersed, the Marquis de Fontanges, who was standing on the poop by the side of Newton, cried out, “Voila un batiment!” Newton looked in the direction pointed out, and discovered the hull of a vessel looming through the fog, about a quarter of a mile to leeward of the Windsor Castle.  One minute’s scrutiny convinced him that it was the pirate, who, not having been expeditious in trimming his sails, laid in irons, as seamen term it, heeling over to the blast.  The Windsor Castle was then running free, at the rate of four miles an hour.

“Starboard the helm—­all hands to board—­steady so.  Be smart, my lads—­it’s the pirate—­port a little.  Hurrah! my lads—­be quick, and she’s all our own.  Quartermaster, my sword—­quick!”

The crew, who were all on deck, snatched their cutlasses from the capstern-head, in which they were inserted, and before three minutes elapsed, during which the pirate had not time to extricate himself from his difficulty, were all ready for the service.  They were joined by the Flemish sailors belonging to the neutral vessel, who very deliberately put their hands in their breeches-pockets, and pulled out their knives, about as long as a carpenter’s two-foot rule, preferring this weapon to anything else.