"I am at your orders, Señorita."
The breakfast was over; they left the table and went up on the quarterdeck. The ship offered to the sight of persons unacquainted with naval affairs, a most singular and attractive appearance. The powerful breeze had bellied the sails; the corvette bounded over the waves like a gazelle, but did not take in a drop of water over the catheads. On deck, the crew were standing silent and motionless by the standing rigging, the gunners at their pieces, and the topmen at their posts. On the forecastle Ramirez and his sixteen men were collected near the head, apparently indifferent, but actually watching the movements of the Mexican. At about a gunshot and a half distant, the brig could be seen, from whose peak haughtily floated a large American flag.
"I suspected it," said the Commandant, "it is a privateer, and has hoisted American colours to deceive us, but we are on our guard."
"Do you think, then, that ship is not American?" Don Serapio asked.
"No more than you are; it is an Argentine, or Brazilian privateer."
"Still, it appears American built,"
"That proves nothing; our ships, bought in different countries, have nothing that causes them to be recognized, for we have no docks."
"That is true; but look, she is going to tack."
"Yes, the sails are beginning to shiver."
The Mexicans fancied themselves so secure from an attack, that most of the crew had left their quarters to follow the manoeuvres of the brig; the sailors, perched on the yards, or leaning out of the ports, were curiously looking on, without dreaming of the danger such a breach of discipline might entail. In the meanwhile the brig came round, as Don Serapio had said. Suddenly, at the moment when it completed the manoeuvre, a detonation was heard, a shrill whistle cut through the air, and the corvette's bowsprit, pierced by a ball, fell into the sea, dragging with it the foremast.