The crag, more than a mile in circuit, is over a thousand feet high, eight miles from the Ayrshire shore.  There stands the cove, lonely as a foundling, proud as Cheops.  But, like the battered brains surmounting the Giant of Gath, its haughty summit is crowned by a desolate castle, in and out of whose arches the aerial mists eddy like purposeless phantoms, thronging the soul of some ruinous genius, who, even in overthrow, harbors none but lofty conceptions.

As the Ranger shot higher under the crag, its height and bulk dwarfed both pursuer and pursued into nutshells.  The main-truck of the Ranger was nine hundred feet below the foundations of the ruin on the crag’s top: 

While the ship was yet under the shadow, and each seaman’s face shared in the general eclipse, a sudden change came over Paul.  He issued no more sultanical orders.  He did not look so elate as before.  At length he gave the command to discontinue the chase.  Turning about, they sailed southward.

“Captain Paul,” said Israel, shortly afterwards, “you changed your mind rather queerly about catching that craft.  But you thought she was drawing us too far up into the land, I suppose.”

“Sink the craft,” cried Paul; “it was not any fear of her, nor of King George, which made me turn on my heel; it was yon cock of the walk.”

“Cock of the walk?”

“Aye, cock of the walk of the sea; look—­yon Crag of Ailsa.”

CHAPTER XVI.

THEY LOOK IN AT CARRICKFERGUS, AND DESCEND ON WHITEHAVEN.

Next day, off Carrickfergus, on the Irish coast, a fishing boat, allured by the Quaker-like look of the incognito craft, came off in full confidence.  Her men were seized, their vessel sunk.  From them Paul learned that the large ship at anchor in the road, was the ship-of-war Drake, of twenty guns.  Upon this he steered away, resolving to return secretly, and attack her that night.

“Surely, Captain Paul,” said Israel to his commander, as about sunset they backed and stood in again for the land “surely, sir, you are not going right in among them this way?  Why not wait till she comes out?”

“Because, Yellow-hair, my boy, I am engaged to marry her to-night.  The bride’s friends won’t like the match; and so, this very night, the bride must be carried away.  She has a nice tapering waist, hasn’t she, through the glass?  Ah!  I will clasp her to my heart.”

He steered straight in like a friend; under easy sail, lounging towards the Drake, with anchor ready to drop, and grapnels to hug.  But the wind was high; the anchor was not dropped at the ordered time.  The ranger came to a stand three biscuits’ toss off the unmisgiving enemy’s quarter, like a peaceful merchantman from the Canadas, laden with harmless lumber.