Then on the port bow loomed an ashen apparition with one red light, like the hideous stare of a drunkard, visible in the stagger of the bows. It was a full-rigged ship, clothed to her trucks with white canvas, about a mile and a half distant. She was standing to the southward and westward, and the red eye of the York was upon her; there would have been no collision, but Sailor's voice was timely. Hardy brought the ship to her course again, and the stranger was on the bow, sliding like a churchyard phantom over the glimmering tombstones of the deep.
"She is an American," said Hardy.
"How do you know?" asked Julia.
"She is clothed in cotton, that is why I know. What a noble lookout is Sailor. Didn't you see her?"
"I see her now, but not before now," she answered.
"Brave dog," cried Hardy.
He called to him and the Newfoundland came rushing aft, with many tokens visible in the starshine of the emotion of satisfaction which good dogs feel when they have done their duty.
"You are wearied out, Julia," said Hardy. "Do you feel as stiff with standing as a shroud of wire-rigging?"
"It is half-past two," answered the girl. "Here is your watch, George. Lie down, dearest, and I will stand here for another hour; I am not tired."
"Hold the wheel whilst I trim this light," was his answer. When this was done he said, "Now to bed, my lass."