from the ship’s bows; the murmurs from little knots of men on deck subdued by the great calm:  home seemed near, all danger far; Peace ruled the sea, the sky, the heart:  the ship, making a track of white fire on the deep, glided gently yet swiftly homeward, urged by snowy sails piled up like alabaster towers against a violet sky, out of which looked a thousand eyes of holy tranquil fire.  So melted the sweet night away.

Now carmine streaks tinged the eastern sky at the water’s edge:  and that water blushed; now the streaks turned orange, and the waves below them sparkled.  Thence splashes of living gold flew and settled on the ship’s white sails, the deck, and the faces; and with no more prologue, being so near the line, up came majestically a huge, fiery, golden sun, and set the sea flaming liquid topaz.

Instantly the lookout at the foretop-gallant-masthead hailed the deck below.

“STRANGE SAIL!  RIGHT AHEAD!”

The strange sail was reported to Captain Dodd, then dressing in his cabin.  He came soon after on deck and hailed the lookout:  “Which way is she standing?”

“Can’t say, sir.  Can’t see her move any.”

Dodd ordered the boatswain to pipe to breakfast; and taking his deck glass went lightly up to the foretop-gallant-mast-crosstrees.  Thence, through the light haze of a glorious morning, he espied a long low schooner, lateen-rigged, lying close under Point Leat, a small island about nine miles distant on the weather bow; and nearly in the Agra’s course then approaching the Straits of Gaspar, 4 Latitude S.

“She is hove to,” said Dodd, very gravely.

At eight o’clock, the stranger lay about two miles to windward; and still hove to.

By this time all eyes were turned upon her, and half a dozen glasses.  Everybody, except the captain, delivered an opinion.  She was a Greek lying to for water:  she was a Malay coming north with canes, and short of hands:  she was a pirate watching the Straits.

The captain leaned silent and sombre with his arms on the bulwarks, and watched the suspected craft.

Mr. Fullalove joined the group, and levelled a powerful glass, of his own construction.  His inspection was long and minute, and, while the glass was at his eye, Sharpe asked him half in a whisper, could he make out anything?

“Wal,” said he, “the varmint looks considerably snaky.”  Then, without moving his glass, he let drop a word at a time, as if the facts were trickling into his telescope at the lens, and out at the sight.  “One—­two—­four—­seven, false ports.”

There was a momentary murmur among the officers all round.  But British sailors are undemonstrative:  Colonel Kenealy, strolling the deck with a cigar, saw they were watching another ship with maritime curiosity, and making comments; but he discerned no particular emotion nor anxiety in what they said, nor in the grave low tones they said it in.  Perhaps a brother seaman would though.