While on the quarterdeck there is no such superstitious thought, a feeling almost as intense agitates the minds of those there assembled. The captain, surrounded by his officers, stands glass in hand gazing at the sail ahead. The frigate, though a fine sailer, is not one of the very fastest, else she might long ago have lapped upon the polacca. Still has she been gradually gaining, and is now less than a league astern.
But the breeze has been also declining, which is against her; and for the last half-hour she has barely preserved her distance from the barque.
To compensate for this, she runs out studding-sails on all her yards, even to the royals; and again makes an effort to bring the chase to a termination. But again to suffer disappointment.
“To no purpose, now,” says her commander, seeing his last sail set. Then adding, as he casts a glance at the sky, sternwards, “The wind’s going down. In ten minutes more we’ll be becalmed.”
Those around need not be told this. The youngest reefer there, looking at sky and sea, can forecast a calm.
In five minutes after, the frigate’s sails go flapping against the masts, and her flag hangs half-folded.
In five more, the canvas only shows motion by an occasional clout; while the bunting droops dead downward.
Within the ten, as her captain predicted, the huge warship lies motionless on the sea—its surface around her smooth as a swan-pond.