Sunset in the South Seas.
The Loelia was lazily head-reaching towards Hunter's Island, about six miles distant, its grim and rugged outlines showing out clearly under the yellow streaks of the sinking sun, Pedro Diaz was on deck, drinking his coffee, when the native seaman who was on the lookout cried—
“Sail ho, sir! Away there on the weather beam.”
Diaz stepped below to Brabant, who was lying in his bunk reading a book.
“Here she is, sir.”
“Ah! three days sooner than I expected her, Pedro. You know what to do, don't you? Here is the letter for Lester. Get away as quickly as you can. The night will be fine and clear, and there will be no need to hoist a light for you.”
He handed the officer a letter addressed to “Captain James Lester, schooner Maritana,” and then rose and began to dress himself.
In a few minutes the cutter's boat, with Pedro Diaz and four hands, was pulling towards the Maritana which was coming along under a six-knot breeze. The moment the boat left the side Brabant set the gaff topsail and square-sail, and headed the Loelia towards the north end of the island. Just as she disappeared from the view of those on board the approaching vessel, Pedro Diaz came within hailing distance. He stood up.
“Maritana ahoy!”