When the Spanish cavalier had entered the boat, Hildebrand seated him beside him, and then, in a low tone, directed the rowers to give way, and make for the ship.

Though a fresh breeze was abroad, the water, sheltered by the high land around, was calm and placid, and laved over the muffled oars in soothing silence. The boat glided over the quiet waves like an arrow, yet, in the stillness and darkness that prevailed, seemingly without propulsion, and as though it moved by its own unaided will through the rolling element.

After a brief interval, they came in sight of the ship, and shortly hove alongside of her. The look-out man, who was standing in the gangway of the ship, then threw them a rope, and, with cautious and noiseless steps, they severally mounted to the deck.

On gaining the deck, Hildebrand’s first proceeding, in resuming the command of his ship, was to ascend to the forecastle, and, by a glance around, ascertain the ship’s exact position. He distinguished the low hull of the gun-boat, which Halyard had described to be lying alongside, somewhat ahead, at about a gun-shot distance. He could not discern any one on her deck, and he thought that, if the darkness continued, he might be able, with a little management, to pass her unobserved. If he succeeded so far, he had no fear but he would pass the puntals, or forts, which guarded the mouth of the harbour, with the same result. Once at sea, he might bid pursuit defiance.

He formed his plan in a moment. Descending to the quarter-deck, he called for Halyard, and explained to that person, for the guidance of himself and the crew, what he contemplated.

“We must first slip our cable,” he said. “Let the men unbend the sails, and make the yards square; and when we once get headway, the breeze, I doubt not, will carry us on. Meantime, have the guns charged, and the deck cleared for action; for the gun-boat, if they observe our purpose, will give us some trouble.”

“Ay, ay, Sir,” answered Halyard.

“I will just see my young friend safe below,” pursued Hildebrand, “when I will rejoin you. Have everything done in silence.”

“Ay, ay, Sir,” repeated Halyard.

Hildebrand, leaving him to carry his injunctions into effect, here turned away, and passed forward to the young Spaniard. Taking that person by the arm, he led him aft, where a hatchway, opening on a close ladder, allowed them to descend to the cabin. A lighted lamp, which was fastened with a screw to a stout oak table, on one side of the cabin, enabled the Spaniard to survey this apartment, and its snug aspect seemed to take him by surprise. Though not more than ten feet square, it was arranged with so much compactness, and such excellent taste, that it looked quite roomy. There were no settles or stools, but a locker, or projecting box, ran round the sides; and the top of this, which abutted about a foot from the main wainscot, served for seats. Both the locker and wainscot, which lined the cabin throughout, were of fine-grained oak, polished very high, and capped by a moulding of the same material. The wainscot opened on either side, about halfway up, with a panelled slide, and exhibited, within, a small recess, or, to borrow a nautical phrase, berth, which a mattress and blankets intimated to be a sleeping-place. In the quarter that faced the door, or entrance, which opened towards the fore part of the ship, an attempt had been made, by a not untasteful hand, to lend the sombre hue of the wainscot some degree of decoration; and on a panel at either end, four pistols had been ranged in a circle, with their barrels turned towards each other, which had a very pleasing effect. On the opposite side of the cabin, shooting up from the hold, a part of the ship’s mainmast was visible; and in front of this, fitting to its abutting round, was the cabin-table, which, like the wainscot, was of oak, and exhibited a fine and brilliant polish.

While the young Spaniard was noting these several particulars, Hildebrand drew forth from his vest, with a somewhat tremulous hand, the note he had brought him from Inez. Inclining his head towards the light, he tore it open, and read therein these words:—

Hastily raising his eyes, Hildebrand saw that, while he was reading the letter, Don Rafaele had been watching him, but that he had averted his gaze directly he raised his head. Concerned at his discomposure, he hastened to give him such a welcome as, in the hurry of the moment, he thought might re-assure him.

“Fair Sir, be of better heart;” he said, cordially clasping his hand. “Thine own good parts would make me glad to be thy friend; but for her sake who wrote this note, and whom we may never see more, I will hold thee dearer than mine own self.”

“I thank you,” faltered the cavalier, without raising his eyes.

“Thou art very, very young,” continued Hildebrand, as he observed his bosom swell with his emotion. “But fear not! The world is not so perilous as we are apt to suppose.”

“No more,” returned Don Rafaele, in a firmer tone. “I doubt thee not, and have no fear. But I am sad—very sad.”

“That gives me more grief that I must leave thee,” said Hildebrand. “We may have some fighting above, and I, of course, as captain, must brave it awhile. Do thou promise me thou wilt stay here.”

“I will,” answered Don Rafaele.

“Then, I will leave thee awhile,” rejoined Hildebrand.

So speaking, he dropped the cavalier’s hand, and turned away. The next moment he had mounted to the deck.

As he set his foot on the deck, the ship, which hitherto had been pretty steady, began to move, and he saw that his injunction to cut the cable had been fulfilled. Casting a glance around, he perceived that the sails, according to his instructions, had been all unbent and squared, and the men assembled at their several quarters. He was still looking round, when he was joined by Halyard.

“All’s ready, Sir!” said that person.

“Who is at the helm?” asked Hildebrand.

“Tom Tarpaulin.”

“Then, I will post myself beside him,” resumed Hildebrand. “Do thou look out for’ard.”

Without further discourse, he ascended to the poop, or stern of the vessel, and stationed himself beside the helmsman. Tarpaulin—for the helmsman was no other—was steering straight before the wind’s eye, in a slanting direction, under the stern of the gun-boat, which was about two ships’ lengths ahead. From their superior elevation, they were able to view the deck of the gun-boat; but whether from the darkness, or that the deck was really unoccupied, they could not distinguish any of the crew. Gradually they drew closer and closer to the gun-boat’s stern. They scarcely ventured to breathe at this critical juncture; and the silence of so many men, all prompt for action, and within view of each other, augmented its terrible interest. The creaking of the tall masts, bowing before the breeze, and the hoarse murmur of the waves, as they turned aside before the ship’s bows, only made the silence more apparent, and the ear returned no echo to their inanimate noise.

A brief interval brought them right athwart the gun-boat’s stern. There was no alarm. They still passed on, as at first, without interruption, though now in a more direct course. The turn of the helm, by which their course had been changed, brought them abreast of their enemy, at about twenty feet distance. The death-like silence still prevailed: every ear still thrilled with excitement; when the full, deep voice of Hildebrand, raised to its highest pitch, rang through the vessel.

“Master Halyard!” he cried, “put out all our canvas, man the after guns, and prepare for boarders!”

The silence was now at an end. The naked feet of the sailors, obedient to the orders of Halyard, were heard rushing in various directions over the deck; the hauling of ropes, the flapping of canvas, the creaking of spars, bending under the weight of sail, rendered a response to the whistling breeze; and, above all, the voices of some half-dozen men, as they set the mainsail, were heard merrily singing—

The crew of the gun-boat were equally alive. Men were seen scrambling over her deck fore and aft; several lights flamed on her forecastle; and it was evident that, though not yet in motion, she was actively preparing to give them chase.

They had scarcely begun to make good way through the water, when Hildebrand discerned the gun-boat following. Propelled by a score of oars, she gained upon them quickly, and it was clear, on regarding her progress, that a conflict would be unavoidable. Though the Englishman sailed gallantly on, she drew nearer and nearer every moment. At last, she fired a gun, and the charge, which the report seemed to indicate as a twenty-four-pounder, struck the fugitive’s stern, just above the water.

Still the latter vessel held on her course. The gun-boat, whether doubtful of the effect of her shot, or more desirous to push the pursuit, did not fire again for several minutes. By that time, having thrown her whole force into the chase, she had come nearly abreast of the fugitive, at a distance of about a dozen yards.

The Englishman was well prepared to receive her. His lower-deck guns, embracing six long twenty-fours, were all manned, and, as he was much higher in the water than she was, sunk to her level. To avert observation, however, the lower deck was left without a light, and, consequently, his readiness for action was not discernible. Being unable to distinguish the open port-holes, the Spaniard, under the guidance of his rowers, approached without suspicion. While he was yet scarcely abreast of the fugitive, he fired two guns, of the same calibre as his first, right into her bulwarks. The lower deck of the fugitive was lighted up in a moment; before the smoke, which issued like a fog from the two discharged guns, had cleared away, her gunners had raised their portfire, and she swept the Spaniard’s deck with her whole broadside.

The report of the guns was still booming over the water, when a heartrending shriek, even more startling than the roar of the artillery, rose from the deck of the gun-boat. At the same moment, the smoke, which now rendered the darkness almost tangible, was broken with bright red flames, shooting up from her deck like waving rockets, and her hull was circled with volumes of fire.

The breeze that insured her destruction served to shoot the Englishman ahead. Though thus pushing forward, however, the crew of the latter vessel, now released from action, still heard the cries of her doomed company. They were audible for several minutes, when, all at once, they became perfectly hushed. The next moment, the gun-boat blew up, and shot into the air in a thousand fragments.

A buzz of horror arose from the crew of the “Eliza” at this consummation of the catastrophe. The shock was so great, that, though now a good distance from its locality, their own ship was shaken by it, and bumped on the waves as if they were a rock. After the unanimous buzz specified, however, no one ventured to speak, and they pursued their course in solemn silence.

Hildebrand was the first to collect himself. Like his men, he had turned, almost mechanically, to view the explosion, and was wheeling round again to the binnacle, or box before the helm (which, it may be explained, contained the compass), when a small and trembling hand was laid on his arm. Labouring under intense excitement, this slight incident made him start; but his face, though it remained pale, betrayed no anger as his glance fell on Don Rafaele.

“In the name of God, what hath happened?” asked that person, with terrible calmness.

“We are safe yet, Senhor,” answered Hildebrand. “Be of good heart, and go below again.”

“I had rather die here,” rejoined Don Rafaele.

“An’ thou wilt not go below, sit thee down on the deck,” said Hildebrand. “A short space more will discover our fate.”

The Spaniard, without a word more—for he saw that Hildebrand was not inclined for further discourse—disposed himself in the manner recommended, on the further side of the binnacle. As he did so, the ship entered the narrow channel of the harbour, and the crisis which Hildebrand had mentioned approached.

On one side of the channel stood the principal puntal, or fort, called St. Lorenzo, which guarded the harbour’s mouth, and the garrison of which had evidently been alarmed by the explosion of the gun-boat, and were now on the alert. The other side was the mainland, and presented a lee shore, lined with breakers, which the sea, in its progress to the strand, covered with boiling surf, whiter than snow. In order to avoid the cannon of the fort, Hildebrand was obliged to steer straight for the breakers, and (to use a nautical phrase) “hug” a shore that threatened destruction. After a hasty survey of his position, he resolved on this course without a moment’s hesitation. The breeze, though fresh, was not violent, and he thought that, if the ship were tacked on the instant he directed, they might weather the breakers successfully. In this belief, he ordered every man to his post, and directed that all things should be arranged, as they progressed onward, to tack with promptitude.

All eyes were turned towards the fort as the ship entered the narrow channel. The moon was now up, and the tall masts of the cruizer, with every stitch of canvas expanded, and puffed out with the wind, seemed to offer a good mark to the puntal’s guns. The crew were not left long to conjecture whether those guns would be brought to bear upon them. Directly they got fairly into the channel, a bright flash, like a tongue of fire, shot out from the nearest battery, and the ear shook under the boom of cannon. The shot fell short of the ship, on its larboard bow; but on the starboard, the lee shore, at less than a gun-shot distance, seemed to menace her with instant destruction. Though cannon after cannon was now discharged from the fort, every eye turned involuntarily to the opposite shore, where the roar of the breakers, and the thundering din of the surf, which shot into the air in a thousand fountains, almost silenced the report of the artillery. The stoutest heart quailed as the milky foam drew nearer and nearer: lips that had never uttered the name of God, from their childhood upward, except to profane it, convulsively gasped to Him in prayer: eyes that had often looked down steadily from the trembling topmast, through the rage and conflict of a tempest, turned giddy before the prospect; and the most stubborn bosoms were sensible of a thrill of dismay. They approached closer and closer to the shore: it seemed impossible, when one ventured to glance to leeward, that they could ever weather it, even if they did not strike immediately. The stillness of death was over the crew, when, just as destruction appeared inevitable, the voice of Hildebrand rang through the ship.

“All hands, jibe ship!” he cried.

The wind thundered through the canvas; the “hoy, hoy” of the sailors, pulling the halyards, pierced the ear like a fife; the tall masts groaned again; and the rush of feet over the deck, the hauling of ropes, the shrill whistle of the pulleys, the boom of the cannon, and the hoarse roar of the breakers, all mingled together, constituted a din too terrible to dwell upon.

For a brief space the fate of the anxious crew was uncertain. It was an awful interval, though so brief, and the most resolute hearts felt a thousand fears. The sails, right through the ship, fore and aft, had been veered instantaneously; but for a moment they backed to the wind. In this fearful juncture, all eyes were turned towards the ship’s stern. The tall figure of Hildebrand, towering over that of Tarpaulin, who was standing before him, was there distinguished at the helm, and the hopes of the crew revived as they saw their destiny in the hands of their commander.

The gallant ship answered her helm. After a short pause, the canvas caught the breeze, and gradually bellied out. The ship bore away from the breakers, and, in less than a quarter of an hour, gained the clear water.

The change in her position brought her in front of the mainland puntal, called Metagorda, which opened fire upon her directly. Having passed the narrow channel, however, she was far out of its range, and the shot fell harmlessly into the water. In a short time she reached the mouth of the harbour, and a loud “hurrah” from the crew, rising unbidden from every lip, announced all danger to be past.