"We shall be all right now," exclaimed Don Melchor.
"Don Domingo would snap his finger at you," murmured the sailor who had incurred the old officer's wrath, under his breath.
The hulk of the ship, painted black, with a line of white on the upper decks, now stood out clearly from the dark background.
The eyes of the spectators, grown accustomed to the gloom, could discern perfectly all that was passing on board.
Two figures were on the quarter-deck, the captain and the coasting pilot, and at the bow stood the ship pilot.
"And the gaff-sail?" shouted Don Melchor again.
The sail of the mizzen-mast fell, as if in obedience to his voice. The wind was insufficient to fill the lower sails, and the canvas hung from the mast, limp and dilapidated as a draggled ball-dress. Soon all sails were furled and the ship was motionless until it slowly made way when taken in tow by the two boats. The figures of the rowers moved measuredly on the benches and the voices of the coxswains singing out, "Pull ahead; pull ahead!" broke the silence of the night.
But the rowers were so feeble in comparison to the bulk in tow that the ship made but slow way. When at the end of a quarter of an hour she managed to get some thirty lengths off the head of the mole, a rope was thrown from one of the boats on to the sea wall to help tack the ship.
"Captain, captain!" cried a stentorian voice from the crowd.
"What is it?" they replied from the ship.