"Land on the weather-bow, and we are raising it fast."
"Land!" exclaimed Bartelot, in astonishment.
"Bearing about twenty miles distant."
"Bah! Cape Flyaway. You have been at your Montrose skipper's wonderful dram-bottle."
"Land as solid as the Bass Rock," continued the Scotchman obstinately; "I have just had a squint at it from the fore-crosstrees, and now mean to have a look at the chart."
"This must be some of your second sight—there is no island hereabout, Morrison. Come Morley, turn out—tumble up, there, and let us have a look at Morrison's enchanted island. How's the wind?"
"Veering ahead."
"And how does she lie?"
"East and by north," replied Morrison, glancing at the tell-tale compass that swung in the skylight, and which is constructed so as to hang with its face downward, for use in the cabin. Bartelot dressed in haste, and was soon on deck, where Morley joined him.
Although our hero knew it not—for who can foresee what to-morrow may bring forth?—this enforced and necessary divergence from the vessel's proper course brought about a very strange episode, or adventure, which cast some light upon the origin, and, it might be, the crimes, of certain persons whom we have been, however unwillingly, compelled by the force of circumstances and the tenor of our story, to introduce to the reader.