It was late when we separated for the night, and the morning was already far advanced ere I awoke; the monotonous tramp overhead showed me that the others were stirring, and I gently moved the shutter of the narrow window beside me to look out.
The sea, slightly rippled upon its surface, shone like a plate of fretted gold,—not a wave, not a breaker appeared; but the rushing sound close by showed that we were moving fast through the water.
“Always calm hereabouts,” said a gruff voice on deck, which I soon recognized as the skipper’s; “no sea whatever.”
“I can make nothing of it,” cried out Power, from the forepart of the vessel. “It appears to me all cloud.”
“No, no, sir, believe me; it’s no fog-bank, that large dark mass to leeward there,—that’s Cintra.”
“Land!” cried I, springing up, and rushing upon deck; “where, Skipper,—where is the land?”
“I say, Charley,” said Power, “I hope you mean to adopt a little more clothing on reaching Lisbon; for though the climate is a warm one—”
“Never mind, O’Malley,” said the major, “the Portuguese will only be flattered by the attention, if you land as you are.”
“Why, how so?”
“Surely, you remember what the niggers said when they saw the 79th Highlanders landing at St. Lucie. They had never seen a Scotch regiment before, and were consequently somewhat puzzled at the costume; till at last, one more cunning than the rest explained it by saying: ‘They are in such a hurry to kill the poor black men that they came away without their breeches.’”