Chapter II.
It was a fine evening. The full moon had risen out of the ocean in matchless splendor, and was rapidly changing its blood-red hues for more silvery tints, as it soared into the cloudless sky.
The captain and passengers were on the quarter-deck, while Mr. Freeman hung over the rail with the comfortable assurance that the bark was making a better run in the second dog-watch than she had in the first, when the mate had been in charge.
“I told you, Miss Blake, I should get a good breeze in my watch, and you see I’m as good as my word.”
“So I perceive; and now that you have it, see that it doesn’t fail us before morning. Otherwise I shall think your fine breeze all the result of luck. How pleasant it is to hear the water gurgling around the ship.”
Eight bells struck, and the dog-watch was over. The wheel and lookout were relieved, and Freeman went below, while Carl Bohlman came on duty to stand the first watch, which lasted until midnight.
“What are you thinking of, Aunt? For ten minutes you have not spoken a word.”
“The beauty of the night has cast a spell over me, Laura, and I was thinking of a favorite poem of mine. I never realized the significance of the first stanza more than on this evening, when we are out on the great ocean with every object bathed in white light.
“‘The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.’”