“And what draws your attention so steadily in that quarter? There is nothing visible but the haze of the sea.”
“’Tis the direction of the Frenchmen, sir—does your honor hear nothing?”
“Nothing;” said Ludlow, after intently listening for half a minute. “Nothing, unless it be the wash of the surf on the beach.”
“It may be only fancy, but there came a sound like the fall of an oar-blade on a thwart, and ’tis but natural, your honor, to expect the mounsheer will be out, in this smooth water, to see what has become of us.—There went the flash of a light, or my name is not Bob Cleet!”
Ludlow was silent. A light was certainly visible in the quarter where the enemy was known to be anchored, and it came and disappeared like a moving lantern. At length it was seen to descend slowly, and vanish as if it were extinguished in the water.
“That lantern went into a boat, Captain Ludlow, though a lubber carried it!” said the positive old forecastle-man, shaking his head and beginning to pace across the deck, with the air of a man who needed no further confirmation of his suspicions.
Ludlow returned towards the quarter-deck, thoughtful but calm. He passed among his sleeping crew, without awaking a man, and even forbearing to touch the still motionless midshipman, he entered his cabin without speaking.
The commander of the Coquette was absent but a few minutes. When he again appeared on deck, there was more of decision and of preparation in his manner.
“’Tis time to call the watch, Mr. Reef;” he whispered at the elbow of the drowsy officer of the deck, without betraying his consciousness of the youth’s forgetfulness of duty. “The glass is out.”
“Aye, aye, sir.—Bear a hand, and turn the glass!” muttered the young man. “A fine night, sir, and very smooth water.—I was just thinking of——”