And ye winds that rave
Till the sands thereunder
Tinge the sullen wave—
Drive her out to sea!”
The little vessel sailed onward over the blue sea. She was bound for a small and distant port on the coast of France, but she made slow way against a wind almost dead ahead.
Leaving Eudora sleeping in the cabin-berth, Malcolm went on deck to get a little fresh air. While standing in the forward part of the vessel, he observed a man with his back turned and his head bowed upon his breast, in an attitude of deep dejection, leaning against the mast. Something in the general form and air of this man seemed half familiar and half alarming to Montrose. Unable to analyze his instincts in regard to this stranger, he beckoned the captain to approach, and inquired, in a tone of displeasure:
“Who is that man? How is it that you have taken another passenger, when I bargained for the sole use of the vessel?”
“Why, sir, he is not a passenger, but a hand I picked up at Abbeyport, to replace one of my men who is too ill for this trip,” answered the captain.
“What is his name?”
“Antony More.”