“I think,” the captain said, after a long debate, “that we had better anchor here close under the shore tonight.  If I am not mistaken, we shall have a gale in the morning.  I do not like the look of the sky.  Tomorrow we shall see how the weather is, and can then come to a decision.”

By morning, as the captain had predicted, the wind was blowing strongly, and a heavy sea was running, and it was agreed to keep along under the lee of the shore until they could obtain a view of the Bay of Antium, and see if the fleet of Fieschi was still there.  If so, they would tack and run back some distance, and make straight out to sea, so as to pass along four or five miles from the shore, as it would be unlikely in the extreme that the Genoese admiral would send a galley out to overhaul a passing ship in such weather.

They sailed along till they neared the slight depression known as the Bay of Antium, and then bore farther out to sea.  Suddenly a fleet was seen running down the coast at some distance away.

“’Bout ship,” the captain cried.  “The Genoese have been cruising further north, and are coming down the coast.  In such weather as this, the Bonito ought to be able to get away from them.”

“It may be Pisani’s fleet,” Francis said, as the ship was put round.

“It is possible,” the captain agreed; “but we cannot run the risk of stopping until we make inquiries.”

“No, captain; but, at least, if we run a mile or so out to sea, we should be able to see round the point, and discover whether Fieschi’s galleys are there.”

The captain assented.  The vessel’s head was turned from the land.  In ten minutes there was a joyous shout on board the Bonito, for the Genoese fleet was seen lying in the bay.  The distant fleet must then form that of Pisani.

“See!” Francis exclaimed.  “The Genoese have just caught sight of them, and are hoisting sail.  They are either going to meet them or to run away.  Our vessels are the most numerous; but no, there is not much difference.  Pisani has fourteen ships, but some must be lagging behind, or have been lost.  How many do you make them out to be, captain?”

“I think there are only nine,” the captain answered, “and that is just the number of the Genoese.”

“Then Fieschi will fight, if he is not a coward,” Matteo said; “but, in that case, why are they making out to sea?”

“Fieschi may not care to be attacked at anchor,” the captain replied.  “That would give all the advantage to us.  Besides, if they were beaten there would be but little chance of any of them escaping.  No, he is right to make out to sea, but blowing as it is, it will be next to impossible for him to fight there.  Two vessels could hardly get alongside to board in such a sea as this.  I expect Fieschi thinks that we shall never attack him in such a storm; but Pisani would fight if it were a hurricane.”

It did indeed seem almost impossible to fight in such a sea.  The Bonito was rolling, gunwale under.  Her sail had been reduced to its smallest proportions, and yet, when the squalls struck her she was laid completely over on her side.  But the rival admirals were too anxious to fight to be deterred by the difficulty, and both were bent upon bringing on an action at once.