Then the morning breeze came down upon the land, and, as by enchantment, the mist vanished, and all the features of that wonderful coast were revealed to them.
Lofty mountains of the most fantastic forms rose sheer from the sea. Some were great pyramids or peaks of ruddy granite gleaming like molten gold in the sunshine; others, sloping more gently, were covered with great forests of tropical vegetation. Along the whole shore extended a white line of foam, where the Atlantic swell, piled up by the fresh trade winds, perpetually thundered at the base of the cliffs. In places the ravines terminated in beautiful bays, where on beaches of silver sand the cocoa-nut trees waved their rustling branches. The tropical seas wash no lovelier a land than this; and at that moment, with the sun still low in the east, there were a softness and translucency in the gorgeous colouring that gave an unreal and fairy-like aspect to the scene. Close under the conical mountain known as the Sugar Loaf a gorge opened out, and through this was seen the vast expanse of the Bay of Rio, which the old navigators, in their admiration for its beauty, likened unto the gates of heaven.
The yacht crossed the tumbling waters on the bar, sailed through the majestic gates, and floated on the still, pale green water of the inland sea.
The Bay of Rio is considered to be the fairest of all the harbours of the earth, and one who has seen it can well believe that it is so. Imagine a vast lake, some eighty miles in circumference, surrounded by grand mountains, indented with many winding bays, and studded with islands of all sizes, on whose shores are many towns and villages, chief among which is the empire city of South America, the white Rio de Janeiro. A luxuriant vegetation comes down to the very edge of the water, even up to the streets of the city; the varied foliage of many species of palms, the luscious blades of the bananas, the spreading mangos, and bread-fruit trees giving a cool appearance to the torrid land.
About a mile from the city of Rio, at the entrance of the bay, is the fortified island of Villegagnon. The yacht was sailing close under its shore, the mate steering. Carew was gazing at the grand scenery around him with deep emotion. Under the influence of this lovely nature, his thoughts became tender and pure; his soul was strangely subdued, and his mind sank into a happy reverie, such as good men who feel secure in their innocence are supposed alone to enjoy.
The mate was watching Carew's face; then he said, in a casual manner—
"I know this port pretty well, Mr. Allen, though I have only been here once before; and, by the way, I was sailing then in an English barque. Let me see, what was the captain's name? Captain Grou—no, it was not that—Garou—Carou—oh yes, that was it—Captain Carou."
Carew started visibly and looked steadily into the mate's face, but he could read nothing in those impassive features. "It is but a coincidence," he said to himself. "It is impossible that Baptiste can have discovered my real name. There are many Carews in the world, after all." Nevertheless, the sound of the name he had put away from him for ever disturbed him greatly. He was awakened from his pleasant reverie, and the beautiful scenery had no more delights for him. All the evil things which he had done and had yet to do were unpleasantly brought to his mind. Now that he saw the great city before him, he shrank from the idea of mixing once more with his fellow-men. He wished he were out on the open sea again.
"Baptiste," he said, "I should like to bring up some way from the quays; it will be quieter."