The Wing-and-Wing by J. Fenimore Cooper (page 7)

“His honor’s linked
Unto his life; he that will seek the one Must venture for the other, or lose both.”

TATHAM.

It was now certain that le Feu-Follet was not in the Bay of Salerno. By means of the lofty spars of the ship, and the aid of glasses, the whole coast had been effectually surveyed, and no signs of such a craft were visible. Even Lyon had given it up, had wore round, and was standing along the land again, toward Campanella, a disappointed man. As Cuffe expected the next wind from the westward, he continued on to the northward, however, intending to go off Amalfi and question any fisherman he might fall in with. Leaving the ship slowly pursuing her course in that direction, then, we will turn our attention to the state of the prisoners.

Ghita and her uncle had been properly cared for all this time. The gunner’s wife lived on board, and, being a respectable woman, Cuffe had the delicacy to send the poor girl forward to the state-room and mess of this woman. Her uncle was provided for near by, and, as neither was considered in any degree criminal, it was the intention to put them ashore as soon as it was certain that no information concerning the lugger was to be obtained from them. Ithuel was at duty again, having passed half the morning in the fore-top. The shore-boat, which was in the way on deck, was now struck into the water, and was towing astern, in waiting for the moment when Carlo Giuntotardi and his niece were to be put in possession of it again, and permitted to depart. This moment was delayed, however, until the ship should again double Campanella, and be once more in the Bay of Naples, as it would have been cruel to send two such persons as the uncle and niece adrift at any material distance from their proper place of landing.

It was very different with Raoul Yvard, however. He was under the charge of a sentry on the berth-deck, in waiting for the fearful moment when he should be brought forth for execution. His sentence was generally known in the ship, and with a few he was an object of interest; though punishment, deaths in battle, and all the other casualties of nautical life, were much too familiar in such a war to awaken anything like a sensation in an active cruising frigate. Still, some had a thought for the prisoner’s situation. Winchester was a humane man, and, to his credit, he bore no malice for his own defeat and sufferings; while in his capacity of first lieutenant it was in his power to do much toward adding to the comfort of the condemned. He had placed the prisoner between two open ports, where the air circulated freely, no trifling consideration in so warm a climate, and had ordered a canvas bulkhead to be placed around him, giving Raoul the benefit of a state-room for his meditations at so awful a moment. His irons, too, had been removed as useless; though care had been had to take away from the prisoner everything by which he might attempt his own life. The probability of his jumping through a port had been discussed between the first and second lieutenants; but the sentry was admonished to be on his guard against any such attempt, and little apprehension was felt, Raoul being so composed and so unlikely to do anything precipitately. Then it would be easy to pick him up, while the vessel moved so slowly. To own the truth, too, many would prefer his drowning himself, to seeing him swinging at a yard-arm.

In this narrow prison, then, Raoul passed the night and morning. It would be representing him as more stoical than the truth, if we said he was unmoved. So far from this, his moments were bitter, and his anguish would have been extreme, were it not for a high resolution which prompted him to die, as he fancied it, like _un Francais_. The numerous executions by the guillotine had brought fortitude under such circumstances into a sort of fashion, and there were few who did not meet death with decorum. With our prisoner, however, it was still different; for, sustained by a dauntless spirit, he would have faced the great tyrant of the race, even in his most ruthless mood, with firmness, if not with disdain. But, to a young man and a lover, the last great change could not well approach without bringing with it a feeling of hopelessness that, in the case of Raoul, was unrelieved by any cheering expectations of the future. He fully believed his doom to be sealed, and that less on account of his imaginary offence as a spy than on account of the known and extensive injuries he had done to the English commerce. Raoul was a good hater; and, according to the fashion of past times, which we apprehend, in spite of a vast deal of equivocal philanthropy that now circulates freely from mouth to mouth, and from pen to pen, will continue to be the fashion of times to come, he heartily disliked the people with whom he was at war, and consequently was ready to believe anything to their prejudice that political rivalry might invent; a frame of mind that led him to think his life would be viewed as a trifle, when put in the scales against English ascendency or English profit. He was accustomed to think of the people of Great Britain as a “nation of shopkeepers,” and, while engaged himself in a calling that bears the brand of rapacity on its very brow, he looked upon his own pursuit as comparatively martial and honorable; qualities, in sooth, it was far from being without, as he himself had exercised its functions. In a word, Raoul understood Cuffe as little as Cuffe understood him; facts that will sufficiently appear in the interview which it has now become our office to relate.

The prisoner received one or two friendly visits in the course of the morning; Griffin, in particular, conceiving it to be his duty to try to cheer the condemned man, on account of his own knowledge of foreign tongues. On these occasions the conversation was prevented from falling into anything like the sombre, by the firmness of the prisoner’s manner. With a view to do the thing handsomely, Winchester had caused the canvas bulkhead to include the guns on each side, which of course gave more air and light within the narrow apartment, as it brought both ports into the little room. Raoul adverted to this circumstance as, seated on one stool, he invited Griffin, in the last of his visits, to take another.

“You find me here, supported by a piece of eighteen on each side,” observed the prisoner, smiling, “as becomes a seaman who is about to die. Were my death to come from the mouths of your cannon, Monsieur Lieutenant, it would only meet me a few months, or perhaps a few days, sooner than it might happen by the same mode in the ordinary course of events.”

“We know how to feel for a brave man in your situation.” answered Griffin, with emotion; and nothing would make us all happier than to have it as you say; you in a good warm frigate, on our broadside, and we in this of our own, contending fairly for the honor of our respective countries.”

“Monsieur, the fortune of war has ordered it otherwise–but, you are not seated, Monsieur Lieutenant.”

“_Mon pardon_–Captain Cuffe has sent me to request you will favor him with your company, in his cabin, as soon as it may be agreeable to yourself, Monsieur Yvard.”

There is something in the polished expressions of the French language, that would have rendered it difficult for Griffin to have been other than delicate in his communications with the prisoner, had he been so disposed; but such was not his inclination; for, now that their gallant adversary was at their mercy, all the brave men in the Proserpine felt a disposition to deal tenderly with him. Raoul was touched with these indications of generosity, and, as he had witnessed Griffin’s spirit in the different attempts made on his lugger, it inclined him to think better of his foes. Rising, he professed his readiness to attend the captain at that very moment.

Cuffe was waiting in the after-cabin. When Griffin and the prisoner entered, he courteously requested both to be seated, the former being invited to remain, not only as a witness of what might occur, but to act as an interpreter in case of need. A short pause succeeded, and then the captain opened the dialogue, which was carried on in English, with occasional assistance from Griffin, whenever it became necessary.

“I greatly regret, Monsieur Yvard, to see a brave man in your situation,” commenced Cuffe, who, sooth to say, apart from the particular object he had in view, uttered no more than the truth. “We have done full justice to your spirit and judgment, while we have tried the hardest to get you into our power. But the laws of war are severe, necessarily, and we English have a commander-in-chief who is not disposed to trifle in matters of duty.”

This was said, partly in policy, and partly from a habit of standing in awe of the character of Nelson, Raoul received it, however, in the most favorable light; though the politic portion of the motive was altogether thrown away, as will be seen in the sequel.

“Monsieur, _un Francais_ knows how to die in the cause of liberty and his country,” answered Raoul, courteously, yet with emphasis.

“I do not doubt it, Monsieur; still, I see no necessity of pushing things to that extremity, England is as liberal of her rewards as she is powerful to resent injuries. Perhaps some plan may be adopted which will avert the necessity of sacrificing the life of a brave roan in so cruel a mode.”

“I shall not affect to play the hero, Monsieur le Capitaine. If any proper mode of relieving me, in my present crisis, can be discovered, my gratitude will be in proportion to the service rendered.”

“This is talking sensibly, and to the purpose; I make no doubt, when we come to right understanding, everything will be amicably arranged between us. Griffin, do me the favor to help yourself to a glass of wine and water, which you will find refreshing this warm day. Monsieur Yvard will join us; the wine coming from Capri, and being far from bad; though some do prefer the Lachrymae Christi that grows about the foot of Vesuvius, I believe.”

Griffin did as desired, though his own countenance was far from expressing all the satisfaction that was obvious in the face of Cuffe. Raoul declined the offer; waiting for the forthcoming explanation with an interest he did not affect to conceal. Cuffe seemed disappointed and reluctant to proceed; but, finding his two companions silent, he was obliged to make his proposal.

“_Qui, Monsieur_” he added, “England is powerful to resent, but ready to forgive. Your are very fortunate in having it in your power, at so serious a moment, to secure her pardon for an offence that is always visited in war with a punishment graver than any other.”

“In what way can this be done, Monsieur le Capitaine? I am not one who despises life; more especially when it is in danger of being lost by a disgraceful death.”

“I am rejoiced, Monsieur Yvard, to find you in this frame of mind; it will relieve me from the discharge of a most painful duty, and be the means of smoothing over many difficulties. Without doubt, you have heard of the character of our celebrated Admiral Nelson?”

“His name is known to every seaman, Monsieur,” answered Raoul, stiffly; his natural antipathies being far from cured by the extremity of his situation. “He has written it on the waters of the Nile, in letters of blood!”

“Aye, his deeds _there_, or elsewhere, will not soon be forgotten. He is a man of an iron will; when his heart is set on a thing, he sticks at no risk to obtain it, especially if the means be lawful, and the end is glory. To be frank, Monsieur, he wishes much for your lugger, the le Few Folly.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Raoul, smiling ironically–“Nelson is not the only English admiral who has had the same desire. Le Feu-Follet, Monsieur le Capitaine, is so charming, that she has many admirers!”

“Among whom Nelson is one of the warmest. Now, this makes your case so much the easier to be disposed of. You have nothing to do but put the lugger into our hands, when you will be pardoned, and be treated as a prisoner of war.”

“Does Monsieur Nelson authorize you to make this proposal to me?” asked Raoul gravely.

“He does. Intrusted with the care of his country’s interests he is willing to overlook the offence against her, under the law of nations, to deprive the enemy of doing so much harm. Put the lugger into our hands, and you shall be sent to an ordinary prison-ship. Nay, merely let us into the secret of her position, and _we_ will see to her capture.”

“Monsieur Nelson doubtless does no more than his duty,” answered Raoul, quietly, but with an air of severe self-respect. “It is his business to have a care for English commerce, and he has every right to make this bargain. But the treaty will not be conducted on equal terms; while he is doing no more than his duty, I have no powers.”

“How? You have the power of speech; that will suffice to let us into the secret of the orders you have given the lugger, and where she is probably to be found at this moment.”

“_Non, Monsieur;_ I have not even _that_ in my power. I can do nothing that must cover me with so much infamy. My tongue is under laws that I never made, when treachery is in question.”

Had Raoul assumed a theatrical tone and manner, as might have been expected, probably it would have made very little impression on Cuffe; but his quiet simplicity and steadiness carried conviction with them. To say the truth, the captain was disappointed. He would have hesitated about making his proposition to an officer of the regular French marine, low as even these stood, at that day, in the estimation of Nelson’s fleet in particular; but from a privateersman he expected a greedy acquiescence in a plan that offered life as a reward, in exchange for a treachery like that he proposed. At first he felt disposed to taunt Raoul with the contradiction between what he, Cuffe, conceived to be his general pursuits, and his present assumption of principles; but the unpretending calmness of the other’s manner, and the truth of his feelings, prevented it. Then, to do Cuffe himself justice, he was too generous to abuse the power be had over his prisoner.

“You may do well to think of this, Monsieur Yvard,” observed the captain, after a pause of quite a minute. “The interest at stake is so heavy, that reflection may yet induce you to change your mind.”

“Monsieur Cuffe, I pardon you, if you can pardon yourself,” answered Raoul, with severe dignity in his manner, rising as he spoke, as if disdaining civilities which came from his tempter. “I know what you think of us corsairs–but an officer in an honorable service should hesitate long before he tempts a man to do an act like this. The fact that the life of your prisoner is at stake ought to make a brave seaman still more delicate how he tries to work on his terrors or his principles. But, I repeat, I forgive you, Monsieur, if you can forgive yourself.”

Cuffe stood confounded. The blood rushed to his heart; after which, it appeared as if about to gush through the pores of his face. A feeling of fierce resentment almost consumed him; then he became himself again, and began to see things as was his wont in cooler moments. Still he could not speak, pacing the cabin to recover his self-command.

“Monsieur Yvard,” he at length said, “I ask your forgiveness sincerely, and from the bottom of my heart. I did not know you, or such a proposal would never have insulted you, or disgraced a British officer, in my person. Nelson, too, is the last man living to wound the feelings of an honorable enemy; but we did not know you. All privateersmen are not of your way of thinking, and it was _there_ we fell into our mistake.”

“_Touchez-la_,” said Raoul, frankly extending his hand. “Monsieur le Capitaine, you and I ought to meet in two fine frigates, each for his country’s honor; let what would be the result, it would lay the foundations of an eternal friendship. I have lived long enough in _votre Angleterre_ to understand how little you know _notre France; mais n’importe._ Brave men can understand one another all over the world; for the little time which is left me, we shall be friends.”

Cuffe seized Raoul’s hand, and even a tear escaped him, as he squeezed it warmly.

“This has been a d–d miserable business, Griffin,” said the captain, as soon as he could speak without betraying weakness, “and one no man will ever find me employed in again, though a fleet as large as that up in the Bay yonder were the price.”

“I never thought it would succeed, sir; and, to say the truth, I never hoped it would. You’ll excuse me, Captain Cuffe, but we English don’t give the continentals exactly the credit they deserve, and particularly the French. I thought it wouldn’t do, from the first.”

Cuffe now repeated his apologies; and after a few expressions of friendly esteem on both sides, Raoul returned to his little room, declining the captain’s offer to occupy one of the cabin state-rooms. Griffin was soon back again; then the conversation was resumed between the two officers.

“This is altogether a most painful business, Griffin,” observed Cuffe, “There is no doubt that Monsieur Yvard is technically a spy, and guilty, according to the forms of law; but I entertain not the smallest doubt of the truth of his whole story. This Ghita Caraccioli, as the girl calls herself, is the very picture of truth; and was actually in Nelson’s cabin the day before yesterday, under circumstances that leave no doubt of the simplicity and truth of her character, while every part of the tale corresponds with the other. Even the veechy, and this pursy old podesta, confirm the account; for they have seen Ghita in Porto Ferrajo, and begin to think the Frenchman came in there solely on her account.”

“I make no doubt, Captain Cuffe, that Lord Nelson will give a respite, or even a pardon, were the facts fairly laid before him,” observed Griffin, who felt a generous interest in preserving the life of Raoul, the very man he had endeavored to destroy by fire only a few weeks before; but such is the waywardness of man, and such are the mixed feelings generated by war.

“This is the most serious part of the affair, Griffin. The sentence is approved; with an order that it shall be carried into effect this very day, between the hours of sunrise and sunset; while here it is already noon, and we are to the southward of Campanella, and so distant from the flag-ship as to put signals out of the question.”

Griffin started; all the grave difficulties of the case glancing upon his mind in a moment. An order, according to the habits of the service, and more especially an order of this serious character, was not to be questioned; yet here was a dilemma in which there appeared no means of relief.

“Good God, Captain Cuffe, how unlucky! Cannot an express be sent across by land, so as yet to reach the flag-ship in time?”

“I have thought of that, Griffin, and Clinch has gone precisely on that errand.”

“Clinch! Pardon me, sir; but such a duty requires a very active and _sober_ officer!”

“Clinch is active enough, and I _know_ his besetting weakness will have no power over him to-day. I have opened the way for a commission to him, and no one in the ship can go to Naples in a boat sooner than Clinch, if he really try. He will make the most of the afternoon’s breeze, should there be any, and I have arranged a signal with him, by which he may let us know the result even at the distance of eight or ten miles.”

“Has Lord Nelson left no discretion in the orders, sir?”

“None; unless Raoul Yvard distinctly consent to give up the lugger. In that case, I have a letter, which authorizes me to delay the execution until I can communicate directly with the commander-in-chief.”

“How very unlucky it has been all round! Is there no possibility, sir, of making up a case that might render this discretion available?”

“That might do among you irresponsibles, Mr. Griffin,” answered Cuffe, a little sharply; “but I would rather hang forty Frenchmen than be Bronted by Nelson for neglect of duty”

Cuffe spoke more strongly than he intended, perhaps; but the commander of a ship-of-war does not always stop to weigh his words, when he condescends to discuss a point with an inferior. The reply put a check upon Griffin’s zeal, however, though the discourse did not the less proceed.

“Well, sir,” the lieutenant answered, “I’m sure we are all as anxious as you can be, to avert this affair from our ship. ‘Twas but the other day we were boasting in the gun-room, to some of the Lapwing’s officers that were on a visit here, that the Proserpine never had an execution or a court-martial flogging on board her, though she had now been under the British ensign near four years, and had been seven times under fire.”

“God send, Griffin, that Clinch find the admiral, and get back in time!”

“How would it do, sir, to send the vice-governatore to try the prisoner; perhaps _he_ might persuade him to _seem_ to consent–or some such thing, you know, sir, as might justify a delay. They say the Corsicans are the keenest-witted fellows in all these seas; and Elba is so near to Corsica, that one cannot fancy there is much difference between their people.”

“Aye, your veechy is a regular witch! He made out so well in his first interview with Yvard, that no one can doubt his ability to overlay him in another!”

“One never knows, Captain Cuffe. The Italian has more resources than most men; and the Signor Barrofaldi is a discreet, sensible man, when he acts with his eyes open. Le Feu-Follet has cheated others besides the vice-governatore and the podesta.”

“Aye, these d–d Jack-o’-Lanterns are never to be trusted. It would hardly surprise me to see the Folly coming down wing-and-wing from under the land, and passing out to sea, with a six-knot breeze, while we lay as still as a cathedral, with not enough to turn the smoke of the galley-fire from the perpendicular.”

“She’s not inside of us, Captain Cuffe; of that we may be certain. I have been on the maintopgallant yard, with the best glass in the ship, and have swept the whole coast, from the ruins over against us, here to the eastward, up to the town of Salerno; there is nothing to be seen as large as a sparanara.”

“One would think, too, this Monsieur Yvard might give up to save his own life, after all!”

“_We_ should hardly do it, I hope, Captain Cuffe?”

“I believe you are right, Griffin; one feels forced to respect the privateersman, in spite of his trade. Who knows but something might be got out of that Bolt? He must know as much about the lugger as Yvard himself?”

“Quite true, sir; I was thinking of proposing something of the sort, not a minute since. Now, that’s a fellow one may take pleasure in riding down, as one would ride down the main tack. Shall I have him sent for, Captain Cuffe?”

The captain hesitated; for the previous experiments on Ithuel’s selfishness had failed. Still the preservation of Raoul’s life, and the capture of the lugger, were now objects of nearly equal interest with Cuffe, and he felt disposed to neglect no plausible means of effecting either. A sign of approbation was all the lieutenant needed; and in a few minutes Ithuel stood again in the presence of his captain.

“Here is an opportunity for you to fetch up a good deal of leeway. Master Bolt,” commenced the captain: “and I am willing to give you a chance to help yourself. You know where you last left the Few-Folly, I suppose?”

“I don’t know but I might, sir,” answered Ithuel, rolling his eyes around him, curious to ascertain what the other would be at. “I don’t know but I might remember, on a pinch, sir; though, to own the truth, my memory is none of the most desperate best.”

“Well, then where was it? Recollect that the life of your late friend, Raoul Yvard, may depend on your answer.”

“I want to know! Well, this Europe _is_ a curious part of the world, as all must admit that come from Ameriky. What has Captain Rule done now, sir, that he stands in such jeopardy?”

“You know that he is convicted as a spy; and my orders are to have him executed, unless we can get his lugger. _Then_, indeed, we may possibly show him a little favor; as we do not make war so much on individuals as on nations.”

Cuffe would probably have been puzzled to explain the application of his own sentiment to the case before him; but, presuming on his having to deal with one who was neither very philosophical nor logical himself, he was somewhat indifferent to his own mode of proceeding, so that it effected the object. Ithuel, however, was not understood. Love for Raoul or the lugger, or, indeed, for anything else, himself excepted, formed no part of his character; while hatred of England had got to be incorporated with the whole of his moral system; if such a man could be said to have a moral system at all. He saw nothing to be gained by serving Raoul, in particular; though this he might have done did nothing interfere to prevent it; while he had so strong an aversion to suffering the English to get le Feu-Follet, as to be willing even to risk his own life to prevent it. His care, therefore, was to accomplish his purpose with the least hazard to himself.

“And, if the lugger can be had, sir, you intend to let Captain Rule go?” he asked, with an air of interest.

“Aye, we _may_ do that; though it will depend on the admiral. Can you tell us where you left her, and where she probably now is?”

“Captain Rule has said the first already, sir. He told the truth about that before the court. But, as to telling where the lugger is now, I’ll defy any man to do it! Why, sir, I’ve turned in at eight bells, and left her, say ten or fifteen leagues dead to leeward of an island or a lighthouse, perhaps; and on turning out at eight bells in the morning found her just as far to windward of the same object. She’s as oncalculating a craft as I ever put foot aboard of.”

“Indeed!” said Cuffe, ironically; “I do not wonder that her captain’s in a scrape.”

“Scrape, sir! The Folly is nothing _but_ a scrape. I’ve tried my hand at keeping her reck’nin’.”

“You!”

“Yes, sir, I; Ithuel Bolt, that’s my name at hum’ or abroad, and I’ve tried to keep the Folly’s reck’nin’, with all the advantage of thermometer, and lead-lines, and logarithms, and such necessaries, you know, Captain Cuffe; and _I_ never yet could place her within a hundred miles of the spot where she was actually seen to be.”

“I am not at all surprised to hear this, Bolt; but what I want at present is to know what you think may be the precise position of the lugger, without the aid of the thermometer and of logarithms; I’ve a notion you would make out better by letting such things alone.”

“Well, who knows but I might, sir! My idee of the Folly, just now, sir, is that she is somewhere off Capri, under short canvas, waiting for Captain Rule and I to join her, and keeping a sharp lookout after the inimies’ cruisers.”

Now, this was not only precisely the position of the lugger at that very moment, but it was what Ithuel actually believed to be her position. Still nothing was further from this man’s intention than to betray his former messmates. He was so very cunning as to have detected how little Cuffe was disposed to believe him; and he told the truth as the most certain means of averting mischief from the lugger. Nor did his _ruse_ fail of its object. His whole manner had so much deceit and low cunning about it, that neither Cuffe nor Griffin believed a word he said; and after a little more pumping, the fellow was dismissed in disgust, with a sharp intimation that it would be singularly for his interest to look out how he discharged his general duties in the ship.

“This will never do, Griffin,” exclaimed the captain, vexed and disappointed. “Should anything occur to Clinch, or should the admiral happen to be off with the king, on one of his shooting excursions, we shall be in a most serious dilemma. Would to God we had not left the anchorage at Capri! _Then_ might communicate with the flag with some certainty. I shall never forgive myself if anything fatal actually take place!”

“When one does all for the best, Captain Cuffe, his mind ought to be at ease, and you could not possibly foresee what has happened. Might not–one wouldn’t like either–but–necessity is a hard master—-“

“Out with it, Griffin–anything is better than suspense.”

“Well, sir, I was just thinking that possibly this young Italian girl might know something about the lugger, and, as she clearly loves the Frenchman, we should get a strong purchase on her tongue by means of her heart.”

Cuffe looked intently at his lieutenant for half a minute; then he shook his head in disapprobation.

“No, Griffin, no,” he said, “to this I never can consent. As for this quibbling, equivocating Yankee, if Yankee he be, one wouldn’t feel many scruples of delicacy; but to probe the affections of a poor innocent girl in this way would be going too far. The heart of a young girl should be sacred, under every circumstance.”

Griffin colored, and he bit his lip. No one likes to be outdone, in the appearance of generosity, at least; and he felt vexed that he should have ventured on a proposition that his superior treated as unbecoming.

“Nevertheless, sir, she might think the lugger cheaply sold,” he said, with emphasis, “provided her lover’s life was what she got in exchange. It would be a very different thing were we to ask her to sell her admirer, instead of a mere privateer.”

“No matter, Griffin. We will not meddle with the private feelings of a young female, that chance has thrown into our hands. As soon as we get near enough in with the land, I intend to let the old man take his boat, and carry his niece ashore. That will be getting rid of _them_, at least, honorably and fairly. God knows what is to become of the Frenchman.”

This terminated the conference. Griffin went on deck, where duty now called him; and Cuffe sat down to re-peruse, for the ninth or tenth time, the instructions of the admiral.

CHAPTER XXII.

“I have no dread,
And feel the curse to have no natural fear, Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, Or lurking love of something on the earth”

_Manfred_,

By this time the day had materially advanced, and there were grave grounds for the uneasiness which Cuffe began so seriously to feel. All three of the ships were still in the Bay of Salerno, gathering in toward its northern shore, however; the Proserpine the deepest embayed, the Terpsichore and the Ringdove having hauled out toward Campanella, as soon as satisfied nothing was to be seen in-shore of them. The heights which line the coast, from the immediate vicinity of the town of Salerno to the headland that ends near Capri, have long been celebrated, not only for their beauty and grandeur, but in connection with the lore of the middle ages. As the Proserpine had never been in this bay before, or never so near its head, her officers found some temporary relief from the very general uneasiness that was felt on account of their prisoner, in viewing scenery that is remarkable even in that remarkable section of the globe. The ship had gone up abreast of Amalfi, and so close in as to be less than a mile from the shore. This object was to communicate with some fishermen, which had been done; the information received going to establish the fact, that no craft resembling the lugger had been in that part of the Bay. The vessel’s head was now laid to the southward and westward, in waiting for the zephyr, which might soon be expected. The gallant frigate, seen from the impending rocks, looked like a light merchantman, in all but her symmetry and warlike guise; nature being moulded on so grand a scale all along that coast, as to render objects of human art unusually diminutive to the eye. On the other hand, the country-houses, churches, hermitages, convents, and villages, clustered all along the mountain-sides, presented equally delusive forms, though they gave an affluence to the views that left the spectator in a strange doubt which most to admire, their wildness or their picturesque beauty. The little air that remained was still at the southward, and as the ship moved slowly along this scene of singular attraction, each ravine seemed to give up a town, each shelf of rock a human habitation, and each natural terrace a villa and a garden.

Of all men, sailors get to be the most _blases_ in the way of the sensations produced by novelties and fine scenery. It appears to be a part of their calling to suppress the emotions of a greenhorn; and, generally, they look upon anything that is a little out of the ordinary track with the coolness of those who feel it is an admission of inferiority to betray surprise. It seldom happens with them that anything occurs, or anything is seen, to which the last cruise, or, if the vessel be engaged in trade, the last voyage, did not at least furnish a parallel; usually the past event, or the more distant object, has the advantage. He who has a sufficient store of this reserved knowledge and experience, it will at once be seen, enjoys a great superiority over him who has not, and is placed above the necessity of avowing a sensation as humiliating as wonder. On the present occasion, however, bur few held out against the novelty of the actual situation of the ship; most on board being willing enough to allow that they had never before been beneath cliffs that had such a union of the magnificent, the picturesque, and the soft; though a few continued firm, acting up to the old characters with the consistency of settled obstinacy.

Strand, the boatswain, was one of those who, on all such occasions, “died hard.” He was the last man in the ship who ever gave up a prejudice; and this for three several reasons: he was a cockney, and believed himself born in the centre of human knowledge; he was a seaman, and understood the world; he was a boatswain, and stood upon his dignity.

As the Proserpine fanned slowly along the land, this personage took a position between the knight-heads, on the bowsprit, where he could overlook the scene, and at the same time hear the dialogue of the forecastle; and both with suitable decorum. Strand was as much of a monarch forward as Cuffe was aft; though the appearance of a lieutenant, or of the master, now and then, a little dimmed the lustre of his reign. Still, Strand succumbed completely to only two of the officers–the captain and the first lieutenant; and not always to these, in what he conceived to be purely matters of sentiment. In the way of duty, he understood himself too well ever to hesitate about obeying an order; but when it came to opinions, he was a man who could maintain his own, even in the presence of Nelson.

The first captain of the forecastle was an old seaman of the name of Catfall. At the precise moment when Strand occupied the position named, between the knight-heads, this personage was holding a discourse with three or four of the forecastle-men, who stood on the heel of the bowsprit, inboard–the etiquette of the ship not permitting these worthies to show their heads above the nettings. Each of the party had his arms folded; each chewed tobacco; each had his hair in a queue; and each occasionally hitched up his trousers, in a way to prove that he did not require the aid of suspenders in keeping his nether garments in their proper place. It may be mentioned, indeed, that the point of division between the jacket and the trousers was marked in each by a bellying line of a clean white shirt, that served to relieve the blue of the dress, as a species of marine facing. As was due to his greater experience and his rank, Catfall was the principal speaker among those who lined the heel of the bowsprit.

“This here coast is moun_tain_ious, as one may own,” observed the captain of the forecastle; “but what I say is, that it’s not _as_ moun_tain_ious as some I’ve seen. Now, when I went round the ‘arth with Captain Cook, we fell in with islands that were so topped off with rocks, and the like o’ that, that these here affairs alongside on ’em wouldn’t pass for anything more than a sort of jury mountains.”

“There you’re right, Catfall,” said Strand, in a patronizing way; “as anybody knows as has been round the Horn. I didn’t sail with Captain Cook, seeing that I was then the boatswain of the Hussar, and she couldn’t have made one of Cook’s squadron, being a post-ship, and commanded by a full-built captain; but I _was_ in them seas when a younker, and can back Catfall’s account of the matter by my largest anchor, in the way of history. D–e, if I think these hillocks would be called even jury mountains, in that quarter of the world. They tell me there’s several noblemen’s and gentlemen’s parks near Lunnun, where they make mountains just to look at; that must be much of a muchness with these here chaps. I never drift far from Wappin’, when I’m at home, and so I can’t say I’ve seen these artifice hills, as they calls them, myself; but there’s one Joseph Shirk, that lives near St. Katharine’s Lane, that makes trips regularly into the neighborhood, who gives quite a particular account of the matter.”

“I dare to say it’s all true, Mr. Strand,” answered the captain of the forcastle, “for I’ve know’d some of them travelling chaps who have seen stranger sights than that. No, sir, I calls these mountains no great matter; and as to the houses and villages on ’em, where you see one here, you might say you could see two on some of the desert islands–“

A very marvellous account of Cook’s Discoveries was suddenly checked by the appearance of Cuffe on the forecastle. It was not often the captain visited that part of the ship; but he was considered a privileged person, let him go where he would. At his appearance, all the “old salts” quitted the heel of the spar, tarpaulins came fairly down to a level with the bag-reefs of the shirts, and even Strand stepped into the nettings, leaving the place between the knight-heads clear. To this spot Cuffe ascended with a light, steady step, for he was but six-and-twenty, just touching his hat in return to the boatswain’s bow.

A boatswain on board an English ship-of-war is a more important personage than he is apt to be on board an American. Neither the captain nor the first lieutenant disdains conversing with him, on occasions; and he is sometimes seen promenading the starboard side of the quarter-deck in deep discourse with one or the other of those high functionaries. It has been said that Cuffe and Strand were old shipmates, the latter having actually been boatswain of the ship in which the former first sailed. This circumstance was constantly borne in mind by both parties, the captain seldom coming near his inferior, in moments of relaxation, without having something to say to him.

“Rather a remarkable coast this, Strand,” he commenced, on the present occasion, as soon as fairly placed between the knight-heads; “something one might look for a week, in England, without finding it.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I’m not of the same way of thinking. I was just telling the forecastle lads, down there, that there’s many a nobleman and gentleman at home as has finder hills than these, made by hand, in his parks and gardens, just to look at.”

“The d–l you have! And what did the forecastle lads down there say to that?”

“What could they, sir? It just showed the superiority of an Englishman to an Italian, and that ended the matter. Don’t you remember the Injees, sir?”

“The Indies! Why, the coast between Bombay and Calcutta is as flat as a pancake most of the distance.”

“Not them Injees, sir, but t’other–the West, I mean. The islands and mountains we passed and went into in the Rattler; your honor was only a young gentleman then, but was too much aloft to miss the sight of anything–and all along America, too.”

As Strand was speaking he glanced complacently round, as if to intimate to the listeners what an old friend of the captain’s they enjoyed in the person of their boatswain.

“Oh! the West Indies–you’re nearer right there, Strand, and yet they have nothing to compare to this. Why, here are mountains, alive with habitations, that fairly come up to the sea!”

“Well, sir, as to habitations, what’s these to a street in Lunnun? Begin on the starboard hand, for instance, as you walk down Cheapside, and count as you go; my life for it, you’ll reel off more houses in half an hour’s walk than are to be found in all that there village yonder. Then you’ll remember, sir, that the starboard hand only has half, every Jack having his Jenny. I look upon Lunnun as the finest sight in nature, Captain Cuffe, after all I have seen in many cruises!”

“I don’t know, Mr. Strand. In the way of coast, one may very well be satisfied with this. Yonder town, now, is called Amalfi; it was once a place of great commerce, they say.”

“Of commerce, sir!–why, it’s nothing but a bit of a village, or, at most, of a borough built in a hollow. No haven, no docks, no comfortable place even for setting up the frame of a ship on the beach. The commerce of such a town must have been mainly carried on by means of mules and jackasses, as one reads of in the trade of the Bible.”

“Carried on as it might be, trade it once had. There does not seem to be any hiding-place along this shore for a lugger like the Folly, after all, Strand.”

The boatswain smiled, with a knowing look, while, at the same time, the expression of his countenance was like that of a man who did not choose to let others into all his secrets.

“The Folly is a craft we are not likely to see again, Captain Cuffe,” he then answered, if it were only out of respect to his superior.

“Why so? The Proserpine generally takes a good look at everything she chases.”

“Aye, aye, sir; that may be true, as a rule, but I never knew a craft found after a third look for her. Everything seems to go by thirds in this world, sir; and I always look upon a third chase as final. Now, sir, there are three classes of admirals, and three sets of flags; a ship has three masts; the biggest ships are three-deckers; then there are three planets—-“

“The d–l there are! How do you make _that_ out, Strand?”

“Why, sir, there’s the sun, moon, and stars; that makes just three by my count.”

“Aye, but what do you say to Jupiter, Saturn, Venus, and all the rest of them, the earth included?”

“Why, sir, they’re all the rest of the stars, and not planets at all. Then, sir, look around you, and you’ll find everything going by threes. There are three topsails, three jibs, and three topgallant sails–“

“And two courses,” said the captain, gravely, to whom this theory of the threes was new.

“Quite true, sir, in name, but your honor will recollect the spanker is nothing but a fore-and-aft course, rigged to a mast, instead of to a jack-yard, as it used to be.”

“There are neither three captains nor three boatswains to a ship, Master Strand.”

“Certainly not, sir; that would be oppressive, and they would stand in each other’s way; still, Captain Cuffe, the thirds hold out wonderfully, even in all these little matters. There’s the three lieutenants; and there’s the boatswain, gunner, and carpenter–and–“

“Sail-maker, armorer, and captain of the mast,” interrupted Cuffe, laughing.

“Well, sir, you may make anything seem doubtful by bringing forward a plenty of reasons; but all my experience says, a third chase never comes to anything, unless it turns out successful; but that _after_ a third chase, all may as well be given up.”

“I fancy Lord Nelson holds a different doctrine, Strand. He tells us to follow a Frenchman round the earth, rather than let him escape.”

“No doubt, sir. Follow him round three earths, if you can keep him in sight; but not round _four_. That is all I contend for, Captain Cuffe. Even women, they tell me, take what is called their thirds, in a fellow’s fortin’.”

“Well, well, Strand, I suppose there must be some truth in your doctrine, or you wouldn’t hold out for it so strenuously; and as for this coast, I must give it up, for I never expect to see another like it; much less a third.”

“It’s my duty to give up to your honor; but I ask permission to think a third chase should always be the last one. That’s a melancholy sight to a man of feelin’, Captain Cuffe, the object between the two midship-guns, on the starboard side of the main-deck, sir?”

“You mean the prisoner? I wish with all my heart he was not there, Strand. I think I would rather he were in his lugger again, to run the chances of that fourth chase of which you seem to think so lightly.”

“Your hanging ships are not often lucky ships, Captain Cuffe. In my judgment, asking your pardon, sir, there ought to be a floating jail in every fleet, where all the courts and all the executions should be held.”

“It would be robbing the boatswains of no small part of their duty, were the punishments to be sent out of the different vessels,” answered Cuffe, smiling.

“Aye, aye, sir–the punishments, I grant, your honor; but hanging is an _execution_, and not a punishment. God forbid that at my time of life I should be ordered to sail in a ship that has no punishment on board; but I am really getting to be too old to look at executions with any sort of pleasure. Duty that isn’t done with pleasure is but poor duty at the best, sir.”

“There are many disagreeable and some painful duties to be performed, Strand; this of executing a man, let the offence be what it may, is among the most painful.”

“For my part, Captain Cuffe, I do not mind hanging a mutineer so very much, for he is a being that the world ought not to harbor; but it is a different thing with an enemy and a spy. It’s our duty to spy as much as we can for our king and country, and one ought never to bear too hard on such as does their duty. With a fellow that can’t obey orders, and who puts his own will above the pleasure of his superiors, I have no patience; but I do not so much understand why the gentlemen of the courts are so hard on such as do a little more reconn’itrin’ than common.”

“That is because ships are less exposed to the attempts of spies than armies’ Strand. A soldier hates a spy as much as you do a mutineer. The reason is, that he may be surprised by an enemy through his means, and butchered in his sleep. Nothing is so unpleasant to a soldier as a surprise; and the law against spies, though a general law of war, originated with soldiers, rather than with us sailors, I should think.”

“Yes, sir, I dare say your honor is right. He’s a rum ‘un, a soldier, at the best; and this opinion proves it. Now, sir, Captain Cuffe, just suppose a Frenchman of about our own metal took it into his head to surprise the Proserpine some dark night; what would come of it, after all? There’s the guns, and it’s only to turn the hands up, to set ’em at work, just the same as if there wasn’t a spy in the world. And should they prefer to come on board us, and to try their luck at close quarters, I rather think, sir, the surprise would meet ’em face to face. No, no, sir; spies is nothing to us–though it might teach ’em manners to keel-haul one, once-and-a-while.”

Cuffe now became thoughtful and silent, and even Strand did not presume to speak, when the captain was in this humor. The latter descended to the forecastle, and walked aft, his hands behind his back, and his head inclining downward. Every one he met made way for him, as a matter of course. In that mood, he moved among the throng of a ship of war as a man tabooed. Even Winchester respected his commander’s abstraction, although he had a serious request to make, which it is time to explain.

Andrea Barrofaldi and Vito Viti remained on board the frigate, inmates of the cabin, and gradually becoming more accustomed to their novel situation. They did not escape the jokes of a man-of-war, but, on the whole, they were well treated, and were tolerably satisfied; more especially as the hope of capturing le Feu-Follet began to revive. As a matter of course, they were apprised of the condition of Raoul; and, both kind and benevolent men in the main, they were desirous of conversing with the prisoner, and of proving to him that they bore no malice. Winchester was spoken to on the subject; but before he granted the permission, he thought it safest to consult the Captain in the matter. At length an opportunity offered, Cuffe suddenly rousing himself, and giving an order in relation to the canvas the ship was under.

“Here are the two Italian gentlemen, Captain Cuffe.” observed Winchester, “desirous of speaking to the prisoner. I did not think it right, sir to let him have communication with any one, without first ascertaining your pleasure.”

“Poor fellow! His time is getting very short, unless we hear from Clinch; and there can be no harm in granting him every indulgence. I have been thinking of this matter, and do not possibly see how I can escape ordering the execution, unless it be countermanded from Nelson himself.”

“Certainly not, sir. But Mr. Clinch is an active and experienced seaman, when he is in earnest; we may still hope something from him. What is to be done with the Italians, sir?”

“Let them, or any one else that poor Yvard is willing to see, go below.”

“Do you mean to include old Giuntotardi and his niece, Captain Cuffe?–and this deserter of our own, Bolt–he, too, has had something to say of a wish to take leave of his late shipmate?”

“We might be justified in denying the request of the last, Mr. Winchester, but hardly of the others. Still, if Raoul Yvard wishes to see even him, his desire may as well be granted.”

Thus authorized, Winchester no longer hesitated about granting the several permissions. An order was sent to the sentinel, through the corporal of the guard, to allow any one to enter the prisoner’s room whom the latter might wish to receive. A ship was not like a prison on shore, escape being next to impossible, more especially from a vessel at sea. The parties accordingly received intimation that they might visit the condemned man, should the latter be disposed to receive them.

By this time, something like a general gloom had settled on the ship. The actual state of things was known to all on board, and few believed it possible that Clinch could reach the Foudroyant, receive his orders, and be back in time to prevent the execution. It wanted now but three hours of sunset, and the minutes appeared to fly, instead of dragging. The human mind is so constituted, that uncertainty increases most of its sensations;–the apprehension of death even, very usually exciting a livelier emotion than its positive approach. Thus it was with the officers and people of the Proserpine; had there been no hope of escaping the execution, they would have made up their minds to submit to the evil, as unavoidable; but the slight chance which did actually exist created a feverish excitement that soon extended to all hands; and this as completely as if a chase were in sight, and each individual was bent on overtaking her. As minute after minute flew by, the feeling increased, until it would not much exceed the bounds of truth to say that under none of the vicissitudes of war did there ever exist so feverish an hour on board his Britannic Majesty’s ship the Proserpine, as the very period of which we are now writing. Eyes were constantly turned toward the sun, and several of the young gentlemen collected on the forecastle, with no other view than to be as near as possible to the headland around which the boat of Clinch was expected to make her reappearance, as behind it she had last been seen.

The zephyr had come at the usual hour, but it was light, and the ship was so close to the mountains as to feel very little of its force. It was different with the two other vessels. Lyon had gone about in time to get clear of the highest mountains, and his lofty sails took enough of the breeze to carry him out to sea, three or four hours before; while, the Terpsichore, under Sir Frederick Dashwood, had never got near enough in with the land to be becalmed at all. Her head had been laid to the southwest, at the first appearance of the afternoon wind; and that frigate was now hull-down to seaward–actually making a free wind of it, as she shaped her course up between Ischia and Capri. As for the Proserpine, when the bell struck three in the first dog-watch, she was just abeam of the celebrated little islets of the Sirens, the western breeze now beginning to die away, though, getting more of it, the ship was drawing ahead faster than she had been since the turn of the day.

Three bells in the first dog-watch indicate the hour of half-past five. At that season of the year, the sun sets a few minutes past six. Of course there remained but little more than half an hour, in which to execute the sentence of the law. Cuffe had never quitted the deck, and he actually started when he heard the first sound of the clapper. Winchester turned toward him, with an inquiring look; for everything had been previously arranged between them; he received merely a significant gesture in return. This, however, was sufficient. Certain orders were privately issued. Then there appeared a stir among the foretop-men and on the forecastle, where a rope was rove at the fore-yard-arm, and a grating was rigged for a platform–unerring signs of the approaching execution.

Accustomed as these hardy mariners were to brave dangers of all sorts, and to witness human suffering of nearly every degree, a feeling of singular humanity had come over the whole crew. Raoul was their enemy, it is true, and he had been sincerely detested by all hands, eight-and-forty hours before; but circumstances had entirely changed the ancient animosity into a more generous and manly sentiment. In the first place, a successful and a triumphant enemy was an object very different from a man in their own power, and who lay entirely at their mercy. Then the personal appearance of the young privateersman was unusually attractive, and altogether different from what it had been previously represented, and that, too, by an active rivalry that was not altogether free from bitterness. But chiefly was the generous sentiment awakened by the conviction that the master-passion, and none of the usual inducements of a spy, had brought their enemy into this strait; and though clearly guilty in a technical point of view, that be was influenced by no pitiful wages, even allowing that he blended with the pursuit of his love some of the motives of his ordinary warfare. All these considerations, coupled with the reluctance that seamen ever feel to having an execution in their ship, had entirely turned the tables; and there, where Raoul would have found so lately between two and three hundred active and formidable enemies, he might almost be said now to have as many sympathizing friends.

No wonder, then, that the preparations of the foretop-men were regarded with unfavorable eyes. The unseen hand of authority, nevertheless, held all in restraint. Cuffe himself did not dare to hesitate any longer. The necessary orders were given, though with deep reluctance, and then the captain went below, as if to hide himself from human eyes.

The ten minutes that succeeded were minutes of intense concern. All hands were called, the preparations had been completed, and Winchester waited only for the reappearance of Cuffe, to issue the order to have the prisoner placed on the grating. A midshipman was sent into the cabin, after which the commanding officer came slowly, and with a lingering step, upon the quarter-deck. The crew was assembled on the forecastle and in the waists; the marine guard was under arms; the officers clustered around the capstan; and a solemn, uneasy expectation pervaded the whole ship. The lightest footfall was audible. Andrea and his friend stood apart, near the taffrail, but no one saw Carlo Giuntotardi or his niece.

“There is yet some five-and-twenty minutes of sun, I should think, Mr. Winchester,” observed Cuffe, feverishly glancing his eye at the western margin of the sea, toward which the orb of day was slowly settling, gilding all that side of the vault of heaven with the mellow lustre of the hour and latitude.

“Not more than twenty, I fear, sir,” was the reluctant answer.

“I should think five might suffice, at the worst; especially if the men make a swift run.” This was said in a half whisper, and thick husky tones, the Captain looking anxiously at the lieutenant the while.

Winchester shrugged his shoulders, and turned away, unwilling to reply.

Cuffe now had a short consultation with the surgeon, the object of which was to ascertain the minimum of time a man might live, suspended by the neck at the yard-arm of a frigate. The result was not favorable; for a sign followed to bring forth the prisoner.

Raoul came on deck, in charge of the master-at-arms and the officer who had acted as provost-marshal. He was clad in his clean white lazzarone garb, wearing the red Phrygian cap already mentioned. Though his face was pale, no man could detect any tremor in the well-turned muscles that his loose attire exposed to view. He raised his cap courteously to the group of officers, and threw an understanding glance forward at the fearful arrangement on the fore-yard. That he was shocked when the grating and rope met his eye, is unquestionable; but, rallying in an instant, he smiled, bowed to Cuffe, and moved toward the scene of his contemplate execution, firmly, but without the smallest signs of bravado in his manner.

A deathlike stillness prevailed, while the subordinates adjusted the rope, and placed the condemned man on the grating. Then the slack of the rope was drawn in by hand, and the men were ordered to lay hold of the instrument of death, and to stretch it along the deck.

“Stand by, my lads, to make a swift run and a strong jerk, at your first pull,” said Winchester, in a low voice, as he passed down the line. “Rapidity is mercy, at such a moment.”

“Good God!” muttered Cuffe, “can the man die in this manner, without a prayer; without even a glance toward heaven, as if asking for mercy?”

“He is an unbeliever, I hear, sir,” returned Griffin, “We have offered him all the religious consolation we could; but he seems to wish for none.”

“Hail the topgallant yards once more, Mr. Winchester,” said Cuffe, huskily.

“Foretopgallant yard, there!”

“Sir?”

“Any signs of the boat–look well into the bay of Naples–we are opening Campanella now sufficiently to give you a good look up toward the head.”

A pause of a minute succeeded. Then the lookout aloft shook his head in the negative, as if unwilling to speak. Winchester glanced at Cuffe, who turned anxiously, mounted a gun, and strained his eyes in a gaze to the northward.

“All ready, sir,” said the first lieutenant, when another minute elapsed.

Cuffe was in the act of raising his hand, which would have been the signal of death, when the dull, heavy report of a distant gun came booming down from the direction of the town of Naples.

“Stand fast!” shouted Cuffe, fearful the men might get the start of-him. “Make your mates take their calls from their mouths, sir. Two more guns, Winchester, and I am the happiest man in Nelson’s fleet!”

A second gun _did_ come, just as these words were uttered: then followed a breathless pause of half a minute, when a third smothered but unequivocal report succeeded.

“It must be a salute, sir,” Griffin uttered, inquiringly..

“The interval is too long. Listen! I hope to _God_ we have had the last!”

Every ear in the ship listened intently, Cuffe holding his watch in his hand. Two entire minutes passed, and no fourth gun was heard. As second after second went by, the expression of the captain’s countenance changed, and then he waved his hand in triumph.

“It’s as it should be, gentlemen,” he said. “Take the prisoner below, Mr. Winchester. Unreeve the rope, and send that d–d grating off the gun. Mr. Strand, pipe down.”

Raoul was immediately led below. As he passed through the after-hatch, all the officers on the quarter-deck bowed to him, and not a man was there in the ship who did not feel the happier for the reprieve.

CHAPTER XXIII.

“He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, Was also certain that the earth was square, Because he’d journeyed fifty miles, and found No sign that it was circular anywhere.”

_Don Juan_.

Raoul Yvard was indebted to a piece of forethought in Clinch for his life. But for the three guns fired so opportunely from the Foudroyant, the execution could not have been stayed; and but for a prudent care on the part of the master’s-mate, the guns would never have been fired. The explanation is this: when Cuffe was giving his subordinate instructions how to proceed, the possibility of detention struck the latter, and he bethought him of some expedient by which such an evil might be remedied. At his suggestion then, the signal of the guns was mentioned by the captain, in his letter to the commander-in-chief, and its importance pointed out. When Clinch reached the fleet, Nelson was at Castel a Mare, and it became necessary to follow him to that place by land. Here Clinch found him in the palace of Qui-Si-Sane, in attendance on the court, and delivered his despatches. Nothing gave the British admiral greater pleasure than to be able to show mercy, the instance to the contrary already introduced existing as an exception in his private character and his public career; and it is possible that an occurrence so recent, and so opposed to his habits, may have induced him the more willingly now to submit to his ordinary impulses, and to grant the respite asked with the greater promptitude.

“Your captain tells me here, sir,” observed Nelson, after he had read Cuffe’s letter a second time, “little doubt exists that Yvard was in the Bay on a love affair, and that his purposes were not those of a spy, after all?”

“Such is the, opinion aboard us, my lord,” answered the master’s-mate. “There are an old man and a very charming young woman in his company, who Captain Cuffe says were in the cabin of this ship, on a visit to your lordship, only a few days since.”

Nelson started, and his face flushed. Then he seized a pen, and, with the only hand he had, scratched a letter, directing a reprieve until further orders. This he signed and handed to Clinch, saying, as he did so:

“Get into your boat, sir, and pull back to the frigate as fast as possible; God forbid that any man suffer wrongfully!”

“I beg your pardon, my lord–but there is not time, now, for me to reach the ship before the sun set. I have a signal prepared in the boat, it is true; but the frigate may not come round Campanella before the last moment, and then all these pains will be lost. Does not Captain Cuffe speak of some guns to be fired from the flag-ship, my lord?”

“He does, sir; and this may be the safest mode of communicating, after all. With this light westerly air, a gun will be heard a long distance at sea. Take the pen, and write as I dictate, sir.”

Clinch seized the pen, which the admiral, who had lost his right arm only a few years before, really felt unable to use, and wrote as follows:

“Sir–Immediately on the receipt of this, you will fire three heavy guns, at intervals of half a minute, as a signal to the Proserpine to suspend an execution.

“To the Commanding Officer of His Majesty’s Ship Foudroyant.”

As soon as the magical words of “Nelson and Bronte” were affixed to this order, with a date, Clinch rose to depart. After he had made his bows, he stood with his hand on the lock of the door, as if uncertain whether to prefer a request or not.

“This is a matter of moment, sir, and no time is to be lost,” added Nelson. “I feel great anxiety about it, and wish you to desire Captain Cuffe to send you back with a report of all that has passed, as soon as convenient.”

“I will report your wishes, my lord,” answered Clinch, brightening up; for he only wanted an opportunity to speak of his own promotion, and this was now offered in perspective. “May I tell the commanding officer of the flag-ship to use the lower-deck guns, my lord?”

“He will do that of his own accord, after reading those orders; heavy guns mean the heaviest. Good afternoon, sir; for God’s sake, lose no time.”

Clinch obeyed this injunction to the letter. He reached the Foudroyant some time before sunset, and immediately placed the order in her captain’s hands. A few words of explanation set everything in motion, and the three guns were fired on the side of the ship toward Capri, most opportunely for our hero.

The half hour that succeeded, on board the Proserpine, was one of gayety and merriment. Every person was glad that the ship had escaped an execution; and then it was the hour for piping down the hammocks, and for shifting the dogwatches. Cuffe recovered all his animation, and conversed cheerfully, having Griffin for an interpreter, with his two Italian guests. These last had been prevented from paying their visit to the prisoner, on account of the latter’s wish to be alone; but the intention was now renewed; and sending below, to ascertain if it would be agreeable, they proceeded together on their friendly mission. As the two worthies, who had not altogether got their sea-legs, slowly descended the ladder, and threaded their way among the throng of a ship, the discourse did not flag between them.

“Cospetto!” exclaimed the podesta; “Signor Andrea, we live in a world of wonders! A man can hardly say whether he is actually alive or not. To think how near this false Sir Smees was to death, half an hour since; and now, doubtless, he is as much alive, and as merry as any of us.”

“It would be more useful, friend Vito Viti,” answered the philosophical vice-governatore, “to remember how near those who live are always to death, who has only to open his gates to cause the strongest and fairest to pass at once into the tomb.”

“By San Stefano, but you have a way with you, vice-governatore, that would become a cardinal! It’s a thousand pities the church was robbed of such a support; though I do think, Signor Andrea, if your mind would dwell less on another state of being, it would be more cheerful; and I may say, more cheering to those with whom you discourse. There are evils enough in this life, without thinking so much of death.”

“There are philosophers who pretend, good Vito, that nothing that we see around us actually has an existence: that we _fancy_ everything; fancy that this is a sea, called the Mediterranean; fancy this is a ship–yonder is the land; fancy that we live; and even fancy death.”

“Corpo di Bacco! Signor Andrea,” exclaimed the other, stopping short at the foot of the ladder, and seizing his companion by a button, afraid he would desert him in the midst of a strange delusion, “you would not trifle in such a matter with an old friend; one who has known you from childhood? _Fancy_ that I am alive!”

“_Si_–I have told you only the truth. The imagination is very strong, and may easily give the semblance of reality to unreal things.”

“And that I am not a podesta, in fact, but one only in fancy!”

“Just so, friend Vito; and that I am only a vice-governatore, too, in the imagination.”

“And that Elba is not a real island, or Porto Ferrajo a real town; and that even all our iron, of which we _seem_ to send so much about the world, in good, wholesome ships, is only a sort of ghost of solid, substantial metal!”

“_St, si_–that everything which appears to be material is, in fact, imaginary; iron, gold, or flesh.”

“And then I am not Vito Viti, but an impostor? What a rascally philosophy is this! Why, both of us are as bad as this Sir Smees, if what you say be true, vice-governatore–or make-believe vice-governatore.”

“Not an impostor, friend Vito; for there is no real being of thy name, if thou art not he.”

“Diavolo! A pretty theory this, which would teach the young people of Elba that there is no actual podesta in the island, but only a poor, miserable, sham one; no Vito Viti on earth. If they get to think this, God help the place, as to order and sobriety.”

“I do not think, neighbor, that you fully understand the matter, which may be owing to a want of clearness on my part; but, as we are now on our way to visit an unfortunate prisoner, we may as well postpone the discussion to another time. There are many leisure moments on board a ship, to the language of which one is a stranger, that might be usefully and agreeably relieved by going into the subject more at large.”

“Your pardon, Signor Andrea; but there is no time like the present. Then, if the theory be true, there is no prisoner at all–or, at the most, an imaginary one–and it can do Sir Smees no harm to wait; while, on the other hand, I shall not have a moment’s peace until I learn whether there is such a man as Vito Viti or not, and whether I am he.”

“Brother Vito, thou art impatient; these things are not learned in a moment; moreover, every system has a beginning and an end, like a book; and who would ever become learned, that should attempt to read a treatise backward?”

“I know what is due to you, Signor Andrea, both on ac count of your higher rank, and on account of your greater wisdom, and will say no more at present; though to keep from _thinking_ on a philosophy that teaches I am not a podesta, or you a vice-governatore, is more than flesh and blood can bear.”

Andrea Barrofaldi, glad that his companion was momentarily appeased, now proceeded toward Raoul’s little prison, and was immediately admitted by the sentry, who had his orders to that effect. The prisoner received his guests courteously and cheerfully; for we are far from wishing to represent him as so heroic as not to rejoice exceedingly at having escaped death by hanging, even though it might prove to be a respite, rather than a pardon. At such a moment, the young man could have excused a much more offensive intrusion, and the sudden change in his prospects disposed him a little to be jocular; for truth compels us to add that gratitude to God entered but little into his emotions. The escape from death, like his capture, and the other incidents of his cruise, was viewed simply as the result of the fortune of war.

Winchester had directed that Raoul’s state-room should be supplied with every little convenience that his situation required, and, among other things, it had two common ship’s stools. One of these was given to each of the Italians, while the prisoner took a seat on the gun-tackle of one of the two guns that formed the sides of his apartment. It was now night, and a mist had gathered over the arch above, winch hid the stars, and rendered it quite dark. Still, Raoul had neither lamp nor candles; and, though they had been offered him, he declined their use, as he had found stranger eyes occasionally peeping through the openings in the canvas, with the idle curiosity of the vulgar, to ascertain the appearance and employments of one condemned to die. He had experienced a good deal of annoyance from this feeling the previous night; and the same desire existing to see how a criminal could bear a respite, he determined to pass his evening in obscurity. There was a lantern or two, however, on the gun-deck, which threw a dim light even beyond the limits of the canvas bulkheads. As has been said already, these bulkheads extended from gun to gun, so as to admit light and air from the ports. This brought the tackles on one side into the room; and on one of these Raoul now took his seat.

Andrea Barrofaldi, from his superior condition in life, as well as from his better education and nicer natural tact, far surpassed his companion in courtesy of demeanor. The latter would have plunged _in medias res_ at once, but the vice-governatore commenced a conversation on general matters, intending to offer his congratulations for the recent respite when he conceived that a suitable occasion should arise. This was an unfortunate delay in one respect; for Vito Viti no sooner found that the main object of the visit was to be postponed, than he turned with eagerness to the subject in discussion, which had been interrupted in order to enter the state-room.

“Here has the vice-governatore come forward with a theory, Sir Smees,” he commenced, the moment a pause in the discourse left him an opening–“here has the vice-governatore come forward with a theory that I insist the church would call damnable, and at which human nature revolts—-“

“Nay, good Vito, thou dost not state the case fairly,” interrupted Andrea, whose spirit was a little aroused at so abrupt an assault. “The theory is not mine; it is that of a certain English philosopher, in particular, who, let it be said, too, was a bishop.”

“A Lutheran!–was it not so, honorable Signor Andrea?–a bishop so called?”

“Why, to confess the truth, he _was_ a heretic, and not to be considered as an apostle of the true church.”

“Aye–I would have sworn to that. No true son of the church would ever broach such a doctrine. Only fancy, signori, the number of imaginary fires, tongues, and other instruments of torture that would become necessary to carry on punishment under such a system! To be consistent, even the devils ought to be imaginary.”

“_Comment, signori!”_ exclaimed Raoul, smiling, and arousing to a sudden interest in the discourse; “did any English bishop ever broach such a doctrine? Imaginary devils, and imaginary places of punishment, are coming near to our revolutionary France! After this, I hope our much-abused philosophy will meet with more respect.”

“My neighbor has not understood the theory of which he speaks,” answered Andrea, too good, a churchman not to feel uneasiness at the direction things were taking: “and so, worthy Vito Viti, I feel the necessity of explaining the whole matter at some length. Sir Smees,” so the Italians called Raoul, out of courtesy still, it being awkward for them, after all that had passed, to address him by his real name–“Sir Smees will excuse us for a few minutes; perhaps it may serve to amuse him to hear to what a flight the imagination of a subtle-minded man can soar.”

Raoul civilly expressed the satisfaction it would give him to listen, and stretching himself on the gun-tackle, in order to be more at ease, he leaned back with his head fairly within the port, while his feet were braced against the inner truck of the gun-carriage. This threw him into a somewhat recumbent attitude, but it being understood as intended to render what was but an inconvenient seat at the best tolerably comfortable, no one thought it improper.

It is unnecessary for us to repeat here all that Andrea Barrofaldi thought proper to say in his own justification, and in explanation of the celebrated theory of Bishop Berkeley. Such a task was not performed in a minute; and, in truth, prolixity, whenever he got upon a favorite theme, was apt to be one of the vice-governatore’s weaknesses. He was far from acquiescing in the doctrine, though he annoyed his old neighbor exceedingly, by presenting the subject in such a way as to render it respectable in appearance, if not conclusive in argument. To the latter it was peculiarly unpleasant to imagine, even for the sake of argument, that there was no such island as Elba, and that he was not its podesta; and all his personal and egotistical propensities came in aid of his official reluctance, to disgust him thoroughly with a theory that he did not hesitate to say “was an outrage on every honest man’s nature.”

“There are fellows in the world, Signor Andrea,” the straightforward podesta urged, in continuation of his objections, “who might be glad enough to find everything imaginary, as you say–chaps that cannot sleep of nights, for bad consciences, and to whom it would be a great blessing if the earth would throw them overboard, as they say in this ship, and let them fall into the great ocean of oblivion. But they are baroni in grain, and ought not to pass for anything material, among honest people. I’ve known several of those rogues at Livorno, and I dare say Napoli is not altogether without them; but that is a very different matter from telling a handsome and virtuous young maiden that her beauty and modesty are both seeming; and respectable magistrates that they are as great impostors as the very rogues they send to the prisons; or, perhaps, to the galleys.”

To speeches like these, Andrea opposed his explanations and his philosophy, until the discussion became animated, and the dialogue loud. It is rather a peculiarity of Italy, that one of the softest languages of Christendom is frequently rendered harsh and unpleasant by the mode of using it. On this occasion, certainly, the animation of the disputants did not mitigate the evil. Griffin happened to pass the spot, on the outside of the canvas, just at this moment, and, catching some of the words, he stopped to listen. His smiles and translations soon collected a group of officers, and the sentry respectfully dropping a little on one side, the deck around the state-room of the prisoner became a sort of parquet to a very amusing representation. Several of the young gentlemen understood a little Italian, and Griffin translating rapidly, though in an undertone, the whole affair was deemed to be particularly diverting.

“This is a rum way of consoling a man who is condemned to die,” muttered the master; “I wonder the Frenchman stands all their nonsense.”

“Oh!” rejoined the marine officer, “drill will do anything. These Revolutionists are so drilled into hypocrisy, that I dare say the fellow is grinning the whole time, as if perfectly delighted.”

Raoul, in fact, listened with no little amusement. At first, his voice was occasionally heard in the discussion, evidently aiming at exciting the disputants; but the warmth of the latter soon silenced him, and he was fain to do nothing but listen. Shortly after the discussion got to be warm, and just as Griffin was collecting his group, the prisoner stretched himself still further into the port, to enjoy the coolness of the evening breeze, when, to his surprise, a hand was laid gently on his forehead.

“Hush!” whispered a voice close to his ear, “it is the American–Ithuel–be cool;–now is the moment to pull for life.”

Raoul had too much self-command to betray his astonishment, but in an instant every faculty he possessed was on the alert. Ithuel, he knew, was a man for exigencies. Experience had taught him a profound respect for his enterprise and daring, when it became necessary to act. Something must certainly be in the wind, worthy of his attention, or this cautious person would not have exposed himself in a situation which would be sure to lead to punishment, if detected. Ithuel was seated astride of one of the chains, beneath the main-channel of the ship, a position which might be maintained without detection, possibly, so long as it continued dark; but which in itself, if seen, would have been taken as a proof of an evil intention.

“What would you have, Etooelle?” whispered Raoul, who perceived that his companions were too much occupied to observe his movements, or to hear his words.

“The _Eye_talian, and his niece, are about to go ashore. Everything is ready and understood. I’ve consaited you might pass out of the port, in the dark, and escape in the boat. Keep quiet–we shall see.”

Raoul understood his respite to be a thing of doubtful termination. Under the most favorable results, an English prison remained in perspective, and then the other side of the picture offered the image of Ghita to his eye! He was in a tumult of feeling, but, accustomed to self-command, no exclamation escaped him.

“When, cher Etooelle, _when_?” he asked, his whisper being tremulous, in spite of every effort to command himself.

“Now–_too-der-sweet–(tout-de-suite)–_the boat is at the gangway, and old Giuntotardi is in her–they are rigging a chair for the gal. Aye–there she swings off!–don’t you hear the call?”

Raoul did hear the whistle of the boatswain, which was piping “lower away” at that very moment. He listened intently, as he lay stretched upon the gun-tackles; and then he heard the splash in the water, as the boat was hauled closer to, in order to be brought beneath the chair. The rattling of oars, too, was audible, as Ghita left the seat and moved aft. “Round in,” called out the officer of the deck; after which Carlo Giuntotardi was left in quiet possession of his own boat.

The moment was exceedingly critical. Some one, in all probability, was watching the boat from the deck; and, though the night was dark, it required the utmost caution to proceed with any hopes of success. At this instant, Ithuel again whispered:

“The time’s near. Old Carlo has his orders, and little Ghita is alive to see them obeyed. All now depends on silence and activity. In less than five minutes, the boat will be under the port.”

Raul understood the plain; but it struck him as hopeless. It seemed impossible that Ghita could be permitted to quit the ship without a hundred eyes watching her movements, and, though it was dark, it was far from being sufficiently so to suppose it practicable for any one to join her and not be seen. Yet this risk must be taken, or escape was out of the question. An order given through the trumpet was encouraging; it announced that the officer of the watch was employed at some duty that must draw his attention another way. This was a great deal; few presuming to look aside while this functionary was inviting their attention in another direction. Raoul’s brain was in a whirl. The two Italians were at the height of their discussion; and, fortunately, the clamor they made was at the loudest. Even the suppressed laughter of the officers, on the outside of the canvas, was audible to _him_; though the disputants could hear nothing but their own voices. Every knock of the boat against the ship’s side, every sound of the oars, as Carlo’s foot rattled them about, and the wash of the water, was audible. It seemed as if all the interests of life–the future, the past, and the present, together with the emotions of his whole heart, were compressed into that single instant. Ignorant of what was expected, he asked Ithuel, in French, the course he ought to take.

“Am I to fall I head-foremost into the water? What would you have of me?” he whispered.

“Lie quiet, till I tell you to move. I’ll make the signal, Captain Rule; let the Eyetalians blaze away.”

Raoul could not see the water, as he lay with his head fairly in the port; and he had to trust entirely to the single sense of hearing. Knock, knock, knock; the boat dropped slowly along the ship’s side, as if preparing to shove off. All this, Carlo Giuntotardi managed exceedingly well. When he lay immediately beneath the main-channels, it would not have been an easy thing to see his boat, even had there been any one on the lookout. Here he held on; for he was not so lost to external things as not fully to understand what was expected of him. Perhaps he was less attended to by those on deck, from the circumstance that no one believed him capable of so much worldly care.

“Is everything safe for a movement, inboard?” whispered Ithuel.

Raoul raised his head and looked about him. That a group was collected around the state-room he understood by the movements, the low conversation, and the suppressed laughter; still, no one seemed to be paying any attention to himself. As he had not spoken for some time, however, he thought it might be well to let his voice be heard; and taking care that it should sound well within the port, he made one of the light objections to the vice-governatore’s theory, that he had urged at the commencement of the controversy. This was little heeded, as he expected; but it served to make those without know that he was in his prison, and might prevent an untimely discovery. Everything else seemed propitious; and lying down again at his length, his face came within a few inches of Ithuel’s.

“All safe,” he whispered; “what would you have me do?”

“Nothing, but shove yourself ahead carefully, by means of your feet.”

This Raoul did; at first, as it might be, inch by inch, until Ithuel put the end of a rope into his hands, telling him it was well fast to the channel above. The rope rendered the rest easy; the only danger now being of too much precipitation. Nothing would have been easier than for Raoul to drag his body out at the port, and to drop into the boat, but, to escape, it was still necessary to avoid observation. The ship was quite half a league from the point of Campanella, and directly abreast of it; and there was no security to the fugitives unless they got some distance the start of any pursuers. This consideration induced the utmost caution on the part of Ithuel; nor was it entirely lost on his friend. By this time, however, Raoul found he was so completely master of his movements as to be able to swing his legs out of the port by a very trifling effort; then the descent into the boat would be the easiest thing imaginable. But a pressure from the hand of Ithuel checked him.

“Wait a little,” whispered the latter, “till the Eyetalians are at it, cat and dog fashion.”

The discussion was now so loud and warm, that it was not necessary to lose much time. Ithuel gave the signal, and Raoul dragged his head and shoulders up by his arms, while he placed his feet against the gun; the next moment, he was hanging perpendicularly beneath the main-chains. To drop lightly and noiselessly into the boat, took but a second. When his feet touched a thwart, he found that the American was there before him. The latter dragged him down to his side, and the two lay concealed in the bottom of the yawl, with a cloak of Ghita’s thrown over their persons. Carlo Giuntotardi was accustomed to the management of a craft like that in which he now found himself, and simply releasing his boat-hook from one of the chains, the ship passed slowly ahead, leaving him, in about a minute, fairly in her wake, a hundred feet astern.

So far, everything had succeeded surprisingly. The night was so dark as to embolden the two fugitives now to rise, and take their seats on the thwarts; though all this was done with exceeding caution, and without the least noise. The oars were soon out, Carlo took the tiller, and a feeling of exultation glowed at the heart of Raoul, as he bent to his ashen implement, and felt the boat quiver with the impulse.

“Take it coolly, Captain Rule,” said Ithuel in a low voice; “it’s a long pull, and we are still within ear-shot of the frigate. In five minutes more we shall be dropped so far as to be beyond sight; then we may pull directly out to sea, if we wish.”

Just then the bell of the Proserpine struck four; the signal it was eight o’clock. Immediately after, the watch was called, and a stir succeeded in the ship.

“They only turn the hands up,” said Raoul, who perceived that his companion paused, like one uneasy.

“That is an uncommon movement for shifting the watch! What is _that_?”

It was clearly the overhauling of tackles; the plash of a boat, as it struck the water, followed.

CHAPTER XXIV.

“Our dangers and delights are near allies; From the same stem the rose and prickle rise.”

ALLEYN.

It has been seen that a generous sympathy had taken place of hostile feeling, as respects Raoul, in the minds of most on board the Proserpine. Under the influence of this sentiment, an order had been passed through the sentries, not to molest their prisoner by too frequent or unnecessary an examination of the state-room. With a view to a proper regard to both delicacy and watchfulness, however, Winchester had directed that the angle of the canvas nearest the cabin-door lantern should be opened a few inches, and that the sentinel should look in every half-hour; or as often as the ship’s bell told the progress of time. The object was simply to be certain that the prisoner was in his room, and that he was making no attempt on his own life; a step that had been particularly apprehended previously to the respite. Now, the whole of the dispute between the two Italians, and that which had passed beneath the ship’s channels, did not occupy more than six or seven minutes; and the little cluster of officers was still gaining recruits, when Raoul was fairly in the yawl of his own lugger. At this moment the ship’s bell struck the hour of eight. The marine advanced, with the respect of a subordinate, but with the steadiness of a man on post, to examine the state of the room. Although the gentlemen believed this caution unnecessary, the loud voices of Andrea and Vito Viti being of themselves a sort of guarantee that the prisoner was in his cage, they gave way to a man, fully understanding that a sentinel was never to be resisted. The canvas was opened a few inches, the light of the lantern at the cabin-door shot in, and there sat the vice-governatore and the podesta, gesticulating and staring into each other’s faces, still in hot dispute; but the place of Raoul Yvard was empty!

Yelverton happened to look into the room with the sentinel. He was a young man of strong powers of perception, with all the phrenological bumps that, are necessary to the character, and he saw, at a glance, that the bird had flown. The first impression was, that the prisoner had thrown himself into the sea, and he rushed on deck without speaking to those around him, made a hurried statement to the officer of the watch, and had a quarter-boat in the water in a surprisingly short time. His astonished companions below were less precipitate, though the material fact was soon known to them. Griffin gave a hasty order, and the canvas bulkhead came down, as it might be, at a single jerk, leaving the two disputants in full view, utterly unconscious of the escape of their late companion, sputtering and gesticulating furiously.

“Halloo! vice-govenatore,” cried Griffin, abruptly, for he saw that the moment was not one for ceremony; “what have you done with the Frenchman?–where is Raoul Yvard?”

“Il Signor Sir Smees? Monsieur Yvard, if you will? Neighbor Vito, what, indeed, has become of the man who so lately sat _there_?”

“Cospetto!–according to your doctrine, Signor Andrea, there never was a man there at all–only the imagination of one; it is not surprising that such a being should be missed. But I protest against any inferences being drawn from this accident. All Frenchmen are flighty and easily carried away, and now that they are no longer ballasted by religion, they are so many moral feathers. No, no–let a man of respectable information, of sound principles, and a love for the saints, with a good, substantial body, like myself, vanish only once, and then I may confess, it will tell in favor of your logic, vice-governatore.”

“An obstinate man, neighbor Vito, is a type of the imperfections that a–“

“Your pardon, Signor Barrofaldi,” interrupted Griffin, “this is, not a moment for philosophical theories, but for us seamen to do our duty. What has become of Raoul Yvard–your Sir Smees?”

“Signor Tenente, as I hoped to be saved, I have not the smallest idea! There he was a minute or two since, seated by that cannon, apparently an attentive and much edified auditor of a discussion we were holding on the celebrated theory of a certain bishop of your own country; which theory, rightly considered–mind, I say _rightly considered_–neighbor Vito; for the view you have taken of this matter is—-“

“Enough of this, for the present, Signori”–added Griffin. “The Frenchman was in this place when you came here?”

“He was, Signor Tenente, and seemed greatly to enjoy the discussion in which—-“

“And you have not seen him quit you through the canvas, or the port?”

“Not I, on my honor; I did suppose him too much entertained to leave us.”

“Ah! Sir Smees has just vanished into the imagination,” growled the podesta, “which is going home to the great logical family of which he is an ideal member! There being no lugger, no corsair, no sea, and no frigate, it seems to me that we are all making a stir about nothing.”

Griffin did not stop to question further. He was quickly on deck, where he found Cuffe, who had just been brought out of his cabin by a hurried report.

“What the d–l is the meaning of all this, gentlemen?” demanded the latter, in a tone which a commander so naturally assumes when things go wrong. “Whoever has suffered the prisoner to escape may expect to hear from the Admiral directly, on the subject.”

“He is not in his state-room, sir,” answered Griffin, “and I directed the boatswain to pipe away all the boats’ crews, as I came up the ladder.”

As this was said, boat after boat was falling, and, in two or three minutes, no less than five were in the water, including that in which Yelverton was already rowing round the ship to catch the presumed swimmer, or drowning man.

“The Frenchman is gone, sir,” said Winchester, “and he must have passed out of the port. I have sent one of the gentlemen to examine if he is not stowed away about the chains.”

“Where is the boat of the old Italian and his niece?”

A pause succeeded this question, and light broke in upon all at the same instant.

“That yawl _was_ alongside,” cried Griffin–“no one was in her, however, but Giuntotardi and the girl.”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said a young foretop-man, who had just descended the rigging–“I saw the boat from aloft, sir, and it hung some time, sir, under the starboard main-chains. It was so dark, I couldn’t fairly make it out; but summat seemed to be passed into it, from a port. I didn’t like the look of the thing, and so our captain just told me to come on deck, and report it, sir.”

“Send Ithuel Bolt here, Mr. Winchester–bear a hand, sir, and let us have a look at that gentleman.”

It is needless to say that the call was unanswered; and then all on board began to understand the mode of escape. Officers rushed into the several boats, and no less than five different parties commenced the pursuit. At the same time the ship hoisted a lantern, as a signal for the boats to rally to.

It has been said that the Proserpine, when this incident occurred, was off the point of the Campanella, distance about half a marine league. The wind was light at east, or was what is called the land breeze, and the vessel had about three knots’ way on her. The headland was nearly abeam, and she was looking up through the pass which separates Capri from the main, hauling round into the Bay of Naples, intending to anchor in the berth she had left the previous day. The night was too dark to permit an object small as a boat to be seen at any distance, but the black mass of Capri was plainly visible in its outlines, towering into the air near two thousand feet; while the formation of the coast on the other side might be traced with tolerable certainty and distinctness. Such was the state of things when the five boats mentioned quitted the ship.

Yelverton had acted as if a man were overboard; or, he had not waited for orders. While pulling round the ship alone, he caught sight, though very dimly, of the yawl, as it moved in toward the land; and, without communicating with any on board, the truth flashed on his mind also, and he gave chase. When the other boats were ready, the two that were on the outside of the ship pulled off to seaward a short distance, to look about them in that direction; while the two others, hearing the oars of the light gig in which Yelverton was glancing ahead, followed the sound, under the impression that they were in pursuit of the yawl. Such was the state of things at the commencement of an exceedingly vigorous and hot pursuit.

As Raoul and Ithuel had been at work, while time was lost in doubt in and around the ship, they had got about three hundred yards the start of even Yelverton. Their boat pulled unusually well; and being intended for only two oars, it might be deemed full manned, with two as vigorous hands in it as those it had. Still, it was not a match for the second gig, and the four chosen men who composed its crew, which was the boat taken by Yelverton, in the hurry of the moment. In a pull of a mile and a half, the yawl was certain to be overtaken; and the practiced ears of Raoul soon assured him of the fact. His own oars were muffled. He determined to profit: by the circumstance, and turn aside, in the hope that his fleet pursuers would pass him unseen. A sheer was accordingly given to the boat, and instead of pulling directly toward the land the fugitives inclined to the westward; the sea appearing the most obscure in that direction, on account of the proximity of Capri, This artifice was completely successful. Yelverton was so eager in the chase, that he kept his eyes riveted before him, fancying from time to time that he saw the boat ahead, and he passed within a hundred and fifty yards of the yawl, without in the least suspecting her vicinity. Raoul and Ithuel ceased rowing, to permit this exchange of position, and the former had a few sarcastic remarks on the stupidity of his enemies, as some relief to the feelings of the moment. None of the English had muffled oars. On the contrary, the sounds of the regular man-of-war jerks were quite audible in every direction; but so familiar were they to the ears of the Proserpines, that the crews of the two boats that came next after Yelverton actually followed the sounds of his oars, under the belief that they were in the wake of the fugitives. In this manner, then, Raoul suffered three of the five boats to pass ahead of him. The remaining two were so distant as not to be heard; and when those in advance were sufficiently distant, he and Ithuel followed them, with a leisurely stroke, reserving themselves for any emergency that might occur.

It was a fair race between the gig and the two cutters that pursued her. The last had the sounds of the former’s oars in the ears of their crews to urge them to exertion, it being supposed they came from the strokes of the pursued; while Yelverton was burning with the desire to outstrip those who followed, and to secure the prize for himself. This made easy work for those in the yawl, which was soon left more than a cable’s length astern.

“One would think, Ghita,” said Raoul, laughing, though he had the precaution to speak in an undertone–“one would think that your old friends, the vice-governatore and the podesta, commanded the boats in-shore of us, were it not known that they are this very moment quarrelling about the fact whether there is such a place as Elba on this great planet of ours or not.”

“Ah! Raoul, remember the last dreadful eight-and-forty hours I do not stop to trifle until we are once more fairly beyond the power of your enemies.”

“_Peste!_ I shall be obliged to own, hereafter, that there is some generosity in an Englishman. I cannot deny their treatment, and yet I had rather it had been more ferocious.”

“This is an unkind feeling; you should strive to tear it from your heart.”

“It’s a great deal to allow to an Englishman, Captain Rule, to allow him gineros’ty,” interrupted Ithuel. “They’re a fierce race, and fatten on mortal misery.”

“_Mais, bon_ Etooelle, your back has escaped this time; you ought to be thankful.”

“They’re short-handed, and didn’t like to cripple a top-man,” answered he of the Granite State, unwilling to concede anything to liberal or just sentiments. “Had the ship’s complement been full, they wouldn’t have left as much skin on my back as would cover the smallest-sized pincushion. I owe ’em no thanks, therefore.”

“_Bien; quant a moi_, I shall speak well of the bridge which carries me over,” said Raoul. “Monsieur Cuffe has given me good food, good wine, good words, a good stateroom, a good bed, and a most timely reprieve.”

“Is not your heart grateful to God for the last, dear Raoul?” asked Ghita, in a voice so gentle and tender that the young man could have bowed down and worshipped her.

After a pause, however, he answered, as if intentionally to avoid the question by levity.

“I forgot the philosophy, too,” he said. “_That_ was no small part of the good cheer. _Ciel!_ it was worth some risk to have the advantage of attending such a school. Did you understand the matter in dispute between the two Italians, brave Etooelle?”

“I heerd their _Eye_-talian jabber,” answered Ithuel; “but supposed it was all about saints’ days and eating fish. No reasonable man makes so much noise when he is talking sense.”

“_Pardie_–it was _philosophy!_ They laugh at us French for living by the rules of reason rather than those of prejudice; and then to hear what _they_ call philosophy! You would scarce think it, Ghita,” continued Raoul, who was now light of heart, and full of the scene he had so lately witnessed–“you would hardly think it, Ghita, but Signor Andrea, sensible and learned as he is, maintained that it was not folly to believe in a philosophy which teaches that nothing we see or do actually exists, but that everything was mere seeming. In short, that we live in an imaginary world, with imaginary people in it; float on an imaginary sea, and cruise in imaginary ships.”

“And was all that noise about an idee, Captain Rule?”

“_Si_–but men will quarrel about an idea–an imaginary thing, Etooelle as stoutly as about substantials. Hist! They will chase imaginary things, too, as are the boats ahead of us at this moment.”

“There are others following us,” observed Carlo Giuntotardi, who was more alive to surrounding objects than common; and who, from his habitual silence, often heard that which escaped the senses of others. “I have noticed the sound of their oars some time.”

This produced a pause, and even a cessation in the rowing, in order that the two seamen might listen. Sure enough, the sound of oars was audible outside, as well as in shore, leaving no doubt that some pursuers were still behind them. This was bringing the fugitives between two fires, as it might be; and Ithuel proposed pulling off at right angles to the course again, in order to get into the rear of the whole party. But to this Raoul objected. He thought the boats astern were still so distant as to enable them to reach the shore in time to escape. Once on the rocks, there could be little danger of being overtaken in the darkness. Still, as it was a first object with Raoul to rejoin his lugger as soon as possible, after landing Ghita, he did not wish to place his boat in any situation of much risk. This induced some deliberation; and it was finally determined to take a middle course, by steering into the pass between Capri and Campanella, in the expectation that when the leading English boats reached the point of the latter, they would abandon the pursuit as hopeless and return to the ship.

“We can land you, dearest Ghita, at the Marina Grande of Sorrento; then your walk to St. Agata will be neither long nor painful.”

“Do not mind me, Raoul; put me on the land at the nearest place, and go you to your vessel. God has relieved you from this great jeopardy, and your duty is to strive to act as it is evident he intends you to do. As for me, leagues will be light, if I can only be satisfied that thou art in safety.”

“Angel! Thou never thinkest of self! But not afoot this side of Sorrento will I quit thee. We can pull thither in an hour or two; then I shall feel that I have done a duty. Once ashore, Etooelle and I can set our little sail, and will run out to sea between the two islands. No fear but what we can do that, with this land breeze; after which, a few rockets burned will tell us where to find le Feu-Follet.”

Ghita again remonstrated, but in vain. Raoul persisted, and she was obliged to submit. The conversation now ceased; the two men plying the oars diligently, and to good effect. Occasionally they ceased, and listened to the sounds of the oars in the frigate’s boats, all which were evidently collecting in the vicinity of the point or cape. By this time the yawl had the extremity of the land abeam, and it soon passed so far into the Bay as to bring most if not all the pursuers astern. In the darkness, with no other guide than the sounds mentioned, and with so many pursuers, there was some uncertainty, of course, as to the position of all the boats; but there was little doubt that most of them were now somewhere in the immediate vicinity of Campanella. As Raoul gave this point a good berth, and his own progress was noiseless, this was bringing himself and companions, after their recent dangers, into comparative security.

More than an hour of steady rowing followed, daring which time the yawl was making swift way toward the Marina Grande of Sorrento. After passing Massa, Raoul felt no further uneasiness, and he requested Carlo Giuntotardi to sheer in toward the land, where less resistance from the breeze was met with, and where it was also easier to know the precise position. Apprehension of the boats now ceased, though Ithuel fancied, from time to time, that he heard smothered sounds, like those of oars imperfectly muffled. Raoul laughed at his conceits and apprehensions, and, to confess the truth, he became negligent of his duty again, in the soothing delight of finding himself, once more free, in all but heart, in the company of Ghita. In this manner the yawl moved ahead, though with materially diminished speed, until, by the formation of the heights, and the appearance of the lamps and candles on the piano, Ghita knew that they were drawing quite near to the indentation of the coast on which is situated the town of Sorrento.

“As soon as my uncle and myself have landed at the Marina Grande, Raoul,” said Ghita, “thou and the American will be certain to seek thy lugger; then thou promisest to quit the coast?”

“Why ask promises of one that thou dost not sufficiently respect to think he will keep them?”

“I do not deserve this, Raoul; between thee and me, no promise has ever been broken.”

“It is not easy to break vows with one who will neither given nor accept them. I cannot boast of keeping such idle faith as this! Go with me before some priest, Ghita, ask all that man ever has or can swear to, and then thou shalt see how a sailor can be true to his vow.”

“And why before a priest? Thou know’st, Raoul, that, in thine eyes, all the offices of the church are mummery; that nothing is more sacred with thee, for being sworn to at the altar of God, and with one of his holy