“On the starboard-bow.”
“What does he look like?” continued Captain Smythe to me, for I had taken the glass at once and was now far on my way to the cross-trees.
“He seems a craft about as heavy as our own.”
“How now?” asked the captain, when sufficient space had elapsed to allow the top-sails of the new visiter to be seen.
“She has the jaunty cut of a corvette!” I replied.
A short space of time—a delay of breathless interest—sufficed to betray the character of the ship ahead. She proved, as I had expected, a corvette. Nor were we long left in doubt as to her flag, for the red field of St. George shot up to her gaff, and a cannon ball ricochetting across the waves, plumped into the sea a few fathoms ahead of our bow. For a moment we looked at each other in dismay at this new danger. We saw that we were beset. A powerful foe was coming up with us hand over hand astern, and a craft fully our equal was heading us off. Escape seemed impossible. The ladies, who still kept the deck, turned pale and clung closer to their protector’s arm. The crew were gloomy. The officers looked perplexed. But the imperturbable calm of the captain suffered no diminution. He had already ordered the crew to their quarters, and the decks were now strewed with preparations for the strife.
“We will fight him,” he said; “we will cripple or sink him, and then keep on our way. But let not a shot be fired until I give the order. Steady, quartermaster, steady.”
By this time I had descended to the deck, ready to take my post at quarters. The ladies still kept the deck, but the captain’s eye happening to fall on them, the stern expression of his countenance gave way to one of a milder character, and, approaching them, he said,
“I am afraid, my dear Miss St. Clair, that this will soon be no place for you or your fair companion. Allow me to send you to a place of safety. Ah! here is Mr. Cavendish, he will conduct you below.”
“Oh! Mr. Cavendish,” said Isabel, with a tremulous voice, “is there any chance of escape?”