"All and whole entirely, Sir Oliver."
"Very well—here"——
The commodore had filled a very sufficing tumbler of grog, and handed it to the Serjeant of marines. The man now unbent, stept into the cabin—wiped his mouth with the back of his large brown paw, and then, looking as sheepish as need be, seized the tumbler in his right hand—"Sir Oliver—and gentlemen all"—and swigging it off, he once more raised his hand to the brim of his chapeau—turned round on his heels, and marched out of the cabin.
About six in the evening, I returned on board the Midge, which had hove to, so soon as she noticed the frigate do so. As soon as we got on deck, and the boat was hoisted up, Lanyard desired the gunner, who had the watch, to bear up again in the wake of the commodore, for whom he was to keep a bright look out.
For a week we had beautiful weather, although the wind continued very light, so that we had almost daily communication with the frigate, and had the happiness of seeing even poor Donovan on deck again. As we widened our distance from the abominable coast, all hands seemed to improve astonishingly, so that by the seventh day after we had taken our departure, there was not a sick man in the ship.
The weather had during all this time been invariably fine, but on this Sunday evening, it had become very much overcast right a-head. Sir Oliver had in the forenoon, at Lanyard's and the youngster's own request, spared him Mister Peak, the midshipman already mentioned, a very wicked little Irish rascal, but a nice boy notwithstanding. He now stood beside me on the felucca's deck.
"A very heavy bank that, sir, right a-head as we are steering," said little Joey.
"Very," said I—"but I don't think there is any wind in it, Mr Peak."
Gradually the dark clouds rose up and up, until they reached the zenith—we appeared to be entering into a gigantic black arch—under whose dark shade the frigate, about a mile on our lee bow, had already slid and become undistinguishable.
The breeze was now very light—sufficient to keep the sails sleeping, and no more. Dennis Donovan, who had that morning paid us a visit, to try whether change of discomforts might not benefit his health, and I were standing together, leaning our arms on the drum of the capstan, and looking out to windward, endeavouring to detect any indication in the dark sky as to the sort of weather we might expect. I was solacing myself with my cheroot, and Donovan was chewing his cud—quid I mean—when I thought I heard something in the air. "Hush! do you hear nothing?" He suspended his mastication, and I took my cigar out of my mouth, and listened all ear—Dennis all mouth—for I could see, dark as it was, that he gaped, as if he expected to catch the sound by the tail in his teeth. "Again—there!"—a faint distant strain of solemn music seemed now to float over head on the gentle night wind, in a low melancholy liquid cadence—increasing like the swell of an Æolian harp, and gradually dying away again, until nothing but the small rushing of the felucca through the water was heard. Startled as I was, still