Our castle, the Bread-Barge was of the common sort; an oblong oaken box, much battered and bruised, and like the Elgin Marbles, all over inscriptions and carving:—­foul anchors, skewered hearts, almanacs, Burton-blocks, love verses, links of cable, Kings of Clubs; and divers mystic diagrams in chalk, drawn by old Finnish mariners; in casting horoscopes and prophecies.  Your old tars are all Daniels.  There was a round hole in one side, through which, in getting at the bread, invited guests thrust their hands.

And mighty was the thrusting of hands that night; also, many and earnest the glances of Mustapha at every sudden creaking of the spars or rigging.  Like Belshazzar, my royal Viking ate with great fear and trembling; ever and anon pausing to watch the wild shadows flitting along the bulwarks.

CHAPTER XXI Man Ho!

Slowly, fitfully, broke the morning in the East, showing the desolate brig forging heavily through the water, which sluggishly thumped under her bows.  While leaping from sea to sea, our faithful Chamois, like a faithful dog, still gamboled alongside, confined to the main-chains by its painter.  At times, it would long lag behind; then, pushed by a wave like lightning dash forward; till bridled by its leash, it again fell in rear.

As the gray light came on, anxiously we scrutinized the features of the craft, as one by one they became more plainly revealed.  Every thing seemed stranger now, than when partially visible in the dingy night.  The stanchions, or posts of the bulwarks, were of rough stakes, still incased in the bark.  The unpainted sides were of a dark-colored, heathenish looking wood.  The tiller was a wry-necked, elbowed bough, thrusting itself through the deck, as if the tree itself was fast rooted in the hold.  The binnacle, containing the compass, was defended at the sides by yellow matting.  The rigging—­ shrouds, halyards and all—­was of “Kaiar,” or cocoa-nut fibres; and here and there the sails were patched with plaited rushes.

But this was not all.  Whoso will pry, must needs light upon matters for suspicion.  Glancing over the side, in the wake of every scupper-hole, we beheld a faded, crimson stain, which Jarl averred to be blood.  Though now he betrayed not the slightest trepidation; for what he saw pertained not to ghosts; and all his fears hitherto had been of the super-natural.

Indeed, plucking up a heart, with the dawn of the day my Viking looked bold as a lion; and soon, with the instinct of an old seaman cast his eyes up aloft.

Directly, he touched my arm,—­“Look:  what stirs in the main-top?”

Sure enough, something alive was there.

Fingering our arms, we watched it; till as the day came on, a crouching stranger was beheld.

Presenting my piece, I hailed him to descend or be shot.  There was silence for a space, when the black barrel of a musket was thrust forth, leveled at my head.  Instantly, Jarl’s harpoon was presented at a dart;—­two to one;—­and my hail was repeated.  But no reply.