Having introduced his guests to their new quarters, the captain returned to his post on deck. And the noise of getting under way roared and thundered overhead.
Britomarte and Judith went into their stateroom to inspect it and lay aside the small parcels that they had brought from the house in their hands. And then Britomarte asked Justin to attend them up on deck that they might watch their island as long as it should continue in sight.
They went up and stood in the stern of the ship, leaning over the taffrail, and looking upon the island, until the Xyphias began to heave and turn, and then, as the wind filled her canvas, to sail away from the open sea. They watched the lonely isle as it gradually receded from their sight, until palm trees, rocks and caverns were mingled in one undistinguishable maze of color—they watched it until it dropped lower and lower down toward the horizon—until its outline became confused with the boundaries of sky and sea—and then they turned away. Britomarte drew her veil to hide her fast-falling tears.
When she lifted it again there was nothing around her but the lonely sea and sky.
The second day of their voyage was a pleasanter one than the first, principally because the captain, having discovered the temperate habits of his passengers, did not insist upon their making five meals a day.
They were steering for Cape Town, where the captain hoped to anchor by the end of that current week.
“We may meet a homeward-bound vessel there,” he said; “if so, we will put you on board of her.”
“It is you who are now anxious to get rid of us, captain,” said Miss Conyers, archly.
And the jolly captain put on the air of a very much injured man, and vowed that Miss Conyers did him great wrong.
The ship was constantly on the lookout for rebel privateers, and kept a man at the masthead day and night, relieving him every two hours. But night followed day, and day succeeded night, and still no sail of any sort was to be seen on all the lonely sea.