On clearing the harbour of Cadiz, Hildebrand put his ship on a southward course, intending, while he was yet favoured by the wind, to run for the Azores. He had previously learned from Halyard, on discussing the policy of such a step, that the Mexican fleet was still at sea, and he was in hopes that he would come up with it about that quarter, if he should not meet it on the way. In this expectation, he set everything in order to carry the design which led him to seek it practicably out.

Meantime, Don Rafaele, on coming on the open water, was attacked with sea-sickness, and was obliged to be carried to the cabin. Having seen the watch set, and directed a good look-out to be posted for’ard, Hildebrand followed him thither, purposing to attend to his requirements himself. He found him bestowed in bed, in one of the two sleeping-berths, but, as may be imagined, far from being disposed for sleep. He was, however, equally indisposed for conversation, and, when Hildebrand approached to greet him, he waved him back, and buried his head under the bedclothes.

For three successive days, he remained in the same state, without taking any food, or uttering a single word. In the mean time, the wind, which had originally been no more than what is called “fresh,” gradually grew boisterous, and, on the second day, increased to a gale. Owing to this circumstance, Hildebrand was obliged to be constantly on deck, superintending the changes which, conformably to the cautious navigation then followed, were continually being made in the disposition of the ship. Nevertheless, he made it a point, every now and then, when he could be spared for a moment from his duties, to visit the cabin, and inquire if his friend’s sickness had abated. With all his unfailing attention, however, he could draw from the sick Spaniard only a monosyllable answer, and his recommendations of refreshment were always wholly unheeded.

Towards the evening of the third day, the wind abated, and, as a consequence of this change, the rocking of the ship, which had hitherto been excessive, became less violent. The subdued motion had a decidedly beneficial effect on the health of Don Rafaele. He answered Hildebrand’s inquiries more fully, and though, with that distaste for food which is a peculiar feature of sea-sickness, he still declined to eat anything, Hildebrand succeeded in prevailing on him to take a cup of wine. The wine acted as a soporific, and, after a short interval, he sank into a profound sleep.

It was broad day when he awoke, and, raising himself up in his berth, he found the sickening qualms which he had lately felt less oppressive, and the whirling sensation in his head, which had been even more afflictive, sensibly mitigated. Owing to the subsidence of the wind, the motion of the ship was now comparatively gentle, and, as he found himself able to sit up, he seemed to acquire more confidence, and ventured to look out on the cabin.

There was no one in the cabin, and the sleeping-berth opposite, which he knew to be appropriated to Hildebrand, was also untenanted. The cabin was quite light; for though there were no windows, a large skylight rose through the ship’s deck, about the centre of the cabin, which enabled him to distinguish every object. Under the skylight was the table, and, happening to glance thitherwards, he perceived, to his great satisfaction, that it was set out for a meal. The sight of the eatables, arranged in tempting order, on a clean white table-cloth, excited his appetite; and for the first time since he came on board, he felt inclined to eat. He seemed to hesitate a moment; and then, extending his arm, he reached his clothes, which were lying at the foot of his bed, and proceeded to dress himself.

When he had donned his clothes, he stepped over the locker, which was just below his berth, on to the deck, and looked round the cabin more narrowly. In the furthermost corner, adjoining the doorway, or entrance, and fitting in a small recess, there was a wash-hand stand, furnished with a pewter bason; and above this, a pewter water-vessel, which hung from a nail in the wainscot by a string of oakum, tied securely round its long and broad-rimmed neck. A looking-glass, and a towel, apparently fresh from the laundry, hung on contiguous nails, and, remembering the locality, formed altogether a toilet not to be despised.

The eyes of the young cavalier brightened as these several articles incurred his observation. With a step which, considering the motion of the ship, and his debilitated condition, was far from being unsteady, he hastened to bring them into use. Before he did so, however, he carefully closed the door; and, with the aid of a bolt which he found under the lock, and which he shot into the socket, secured himself against intrusion. This done, he raised his hand to his lips, and—for they now proved to be only an assumed feature—drew off his moustachios. His face displayed quite another expression on the removal of the false moustachios. His eyes, which were large and full, seemed to look softer, and to assume a more melting and feminine beauty. His other features also gained by the change, and their exquisite and faultless outlines, running into each other in imperceptible gradation, presented in every turn a new charm, and a more fascinating sweetness. Even his complexion appeared less masculine and vigorous; and its pure alabaster ground, rounded with deep red, which a pensive but stirring animation almost illuminated, would have more become the face of a mellow girl, than that of an approaching man.

He soon despatched his ablutions, and, with the aid of the napkin, and the looking-glass (but more especially the latter), shortly fulfilled his toilet. This refreshing process completed, he turned to the contiguous table, and regarded the various eatables which there rose to view, in the order before described, with augmented satisfaction and appetite.

Nevertheless, when he came to sit down, a very thin slice of ham, with a fragment of biscuit, and a small cup of wine, served to appease his hunger. Though he ate so sparingly, however, his meal greatly refreshed him, and, on rising from the table, he felt himself possessed of increased vigour, and animated by a new spirit.

After pausing a moment at the table, he stepped towards the door, and proceeded to ascend to the deck. The motion of the ship, which otherwise might have retarded his progress, was now very gentle, and, with the help of an accommodating side-rope, he passed up the ladder with ease. As he stepped through the hatchway to the deck, he observed Hildebrand, with his lieutenant, Halyard, standing right before him, and, steadying his foot against the combing, he stretched out his hand, and seized him familiarly by the arm.

Hildebrand—whose face had been turned the other way—started round directly.

“Well done, my brave Senhor!” he exclaimed, with an earnest smile, at the same time clasping the cavalier’s extended hand, “I am right merry to see thee up again.”

Before Don Rafaele could make any reply, Master Halyard, hearing the salutation of his captain, also turned round, and caught up his other hand.

“Shiver my topsail!” cried the honest tar, in an odd mixture of Spanish and English phrases, “but I be heartily glad to see thee afloat again, Master Don. ’Tis sheer idling to lay long on one’s beam-ends. Life is but short; let us live well on the road, says the gentle Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.”

“I thank you both, fair gentlemen,” answered Don Rafaele. “I now feel quite strong again, though, having the heart of a landsman, I still long for the shore. But have we the breeze with us?” he added, with that curiosity about the wind, which, whatever may be our situation, one always feels at sea, and is never inclined to check.

“Right heartily,” replied Hildebrand. “Mark how gallantly we buffet the waves!”

Don Rafaele, with a smile, raised his eyes, and swept them eagerly around.

When we behold ourselves out of sight of land for the first time, with no horizon, as far as the eye can any way pierce, but the unbroken sky, rising from the water’s edge in gradual and inseparable lines, and covering the vast circle we move in with its eternal dome—which, shoot forward as we may, still presents the same circuit, and seems to hold us ever in its centre;—when we view such a prospect for the first time, the heart feels, in the surrounding immensity, a keener sense of its own littleness, and of its insignificance in the scale of the creation, than in any other situation that life affords. The black waves, mounting in a hundred heads, and then falling under one crowning swell, which, rolling forward, is itself overtopped, and lost in its successor:—the black waves, thus rushing by, remind one of the onward course of life, of the mutability of human fortunes, and the briefness of mortality.

Such was the reflection that rose in the mind of the young Spaniard. But it passed away directly, and the more cheerful features of the scene—for it was not without cheerful features—engaged his whole attention.

The sun was high in the heavens, and a long line of dazzling sunshine, looking more like light than reflection, was spread out in the wake of the ship, making the white surf that marked her course fairly sparkle. The sky, though so high over head, was almost transparent, and the few clouds that broke its vast arch were light and buoyant, and served rather to relieve its sameness, than to contract its beauty. Nor were there wanting objects of interest on the water. Looking over the ship’s side, Don Rafaele beheld, at a little distance, squadrons of gulls, not unvaried in their plumage, sailing gaily by, or occasionally mounting into the air, and wheeling round and round towards the sky. Alongside was the active porpoise, rolling over and over on the waves, and seeming, by the regularity of his progress, to measure his speed to that of the ship. Every now and then, too, a lively bonito, either from mere sportiveness, or to avoid some approaching and voracious enemy, would leap bodily into the air, and, after performing a perfect summerset, drop into the deep again, and be seen no more. If the eye pushed its survey further, the ship herself, viewed from the quarter-deck, presented much to arrest its attention. The white sails, spread out before the wind, which filled them to the brim, were not its most interesting feature. Sailors were perched in various parts of the rigging, on the yards, and in the shrouds, gazing intently for’ard, whose seemingly perilous situation was a more engrossing object. Don Rafaele, unused to the economy of a ship, turned pale as he observed them, and, wheeling round to Hildebrand, he inquired if there was any reason for their being thus disposed.

“They are there of their own choice, Senhor,” answered Hildebrand, with a smile.

“Surely, no!” returned the incredulous Spaniard.

“Indeed, it is even so,” said Hildebrand. “Those birds thou seest yonder, and the scraps of trees and seaweed floating by, tell them we are near land, and they are striving who shall hail it first.”

“A merry conceit, truly,” observed Don Rafaele. “See!” he added, pointing to the top-gallant mast, to which the stout frame of Tarpaulin was clinging, “how yon frail stick, every now and anon, bends with the weight of that sturdy man! Couldst thou thus sustain thyself, Sir Lieutenant?”

“I am no ways particular, Master Don,” answered Halyard.

“No, in sooth?” replied Don Rafaele. “Well, I believe thee; and yet, my life! ’tis a right perilous elevation. I’faith, a hair’s turn would there take life away.”

His remark offered a tempting opportunity to Halyard to speak with effect; and though, as Don Rafaele paused, he saw that Hildebrand was about to reply, he interposed immediately, and gave his sentiments utterance.

“Well,” he said, very quickly, in order that he might come in before Hildebrand, “life is but short; let us live well on the road, says the gentle Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.”

“Land, on the larboard bow!” cried Tom Tarpaulin, from the head of the top-gallant mast.

“Land, on the larboard bow!” cried a dozen voices, from various parts of the ship.

All was bustle and excitement in a moment. Even Don Rafaele, who had scarcely been able to steady himself hitherto, comprehending what the cry signified, sprang nimbly to the side of the ship, and looked anxiously round the horizon. Trusting entirely to instinct, however, he made a slight mistake in the direction, and, instead of going to the larboard bow, posted straight to the starboard. He was gazing earnestly round, when Hildebrand, who had observed his error, came up with him, and led him to the proper quarter.

Leaving the quarter-deck, they passed to the forecastle, where they were able, from their greater elevation, to view the horizon more fully. Some little time elapsed, however, before Hildebrand, with all his quick sight, could fix the object which he wished to point out to Don Rafaele. At last, he achieved his purpose, and succeeded in bringing it under that person’s observation.

It was like a mist, rising out of the water, on the extreme verge of the horizon; and appeared to be no larger than a man’s hand. Gradually—but by very slow degrees—it grew more apparent, and, after the eye had rested on it for a short space longer, presented a bold and distinct outline.

On this simple object the inmates of the good ship “Eliza” gazed earnestly for several successive minutes. The most protracted gaze elicited no more than was seen by a first and cursory glance; but, though they were not ignorant of this, every one still looked upon it, after they had viewed it over and over again, with unabated interest. It was a landmark, and, though it was land that they were never to tread, it connected them, by association, and by the train of images that it involuntarily forced into their minds, with the world that they had left, and showed that the wide waste of waters around was not their only home.

For a little time, Hildebrand and Don Rafaele surveyed the dim landmark in silence. After he had satisfied his curiosity respecting its aspect, however, the latter person, in his usual musical voice, proceeded to inquire its name.

“And what land may that be, Senhor?” he inquired of Hildebrand.

“’Tis the island of St. George, one of the Azores,” answered Hildebrand.

“Be the Azores on the way to England?” asked Don Rafaele, with some surprise.

Hildebrand, from whatever motive, made no reply at the moment; but, turning round, first led him back to the quarter-deck. When they had come to their former position, by the after-hatchway, he rendered an explanation.

“Of a surety, they are not in the direct way to England, Senhor,” he said, “for our purpose does not take us thither straight. ’Twas for this, and not that I liked not thy fair company, that I hesitated to bring thee with us from Cadiz.”

“Oh, I care not! I care not!” answered Don Rafaele, with a smile. “I’faith, I am quite a mariner now.”

“Ah, Senhor!” returned Hildebrand, “we may, perchance, never tread the merry land again. And in this apprehension, I account not the perils of the sea, but the more fatal perils of war.”

Don Rafaele looked downcast.

“To one bred up to war, these give no concern,” continued Hildebrand; “but thou art of another mould, and, moreover, too young to be exposed to them.”

“To speak fair sooth,” answered Don Rafaele, in a tremulous tone, “I never cared to turn soldier. ’Tis a merry life, certes; but commend me to a more peaceful one.”

So spiritless a sentiment was not calculated to excite a response in the martial bosom of Hildebrand. Although, however, on its first utterance, he originally deemed it mean and unmanly, a moment’s reflection served to set the young Spaniard’s character before him in more pleasing and favourable colours. His noble heroism in the prison, in throwing himself between him and the alguazil, when such interposition appeared to entail upon him inevitable death, had not escaped his memory; and, though it was but a momentary impulse, he considered that this act alone answered for his courage, and denoted him to be the possessor of many admirable qualities. He had, moreover, from the nature of the events that had brought them together, and which had marked their acquaintance up to the present moment, insensibly begun to look upon him with regard, and so was further inclined to slight anything that might arise to his disparagement. Thus influenced, he replied to the cavalier in a soothing tone, and without taking any exception, either by his words or manner, to his somewhat irregular sentiment.

“In the passing instance, Senhor,” he said, “thou canst not even have the excuse of a soldier for seeking to display thy courage. The enemy we shall encounter will be thine own countrymen.”

“Alas!” sighed Don Rafaele.

“Wert thou not with us, I should look for the issue less impatiently,” pursued Hildebrand; “but, as it is, I cannot conceal from thee, in anticipation of the worst, that their force will greatly surpass ours.”

“But we may miss them,” said Don Rafaele.

“But an’ we do not,” answered Hildebrand, more cheerfully, and with some approach to a smile, “thou must promise me, if we go into action, that thou wilt hold thyself below the while, and not engage in a contest wherein thou hast no concern.”

“That do I promise heartily,” replied Don Rafaele, with much earnestness.

“’Tis a wise resolve, and a brave,” said Hildebrand; “for ’twould become thee ill to take part against thy country. It grieves me sorely to see thee in peril at all.”

“Nay, let it not deject thee,” rejoined Don Rafaele. “When thou art at hand, I have no fear.”

The confidence breathed in his remark made Hildebrand smile.

“Thou leanest on me thus,” he observed, in a grave tone, “because thou art young. Youth is trusting; but wert thou older, thou wouldst look on me, who am known to thee for so brief a space, with more wariness, and less reliance.”

“In sooth, no, never!” said Don Rafaele, earnestly. “Hardly could thine own self make me ever doubt thee.”

He paused, and, as though he had just become sensible of the eagerness with which he had spoken, and the warmth and earnestness of his manner, and, for some reason or other, considered such a manifestation unbecoming, looked confused. Turning to avoid observation, his eye fell on the ship’s shrouds, and he there discerned something that, seized on the instant, furnished him with an excellent opening for retreat.

“Madonna! see your lieutenant, Senhor!” he said, pointing to the shrouds, which Master Halyard, in order to show that what he had asserted to him was a fact, and that he was really “no ways particular,” had mounted barefooted, and was now ascending on his way aloft. “In faith, he treads the rope to measure, as though there were music playing.”

His astonishment was increased when, on approaching the summit of the shrouds, Master Halyard, instead of pushing through the lubbers’-hole, took the more venturous route upward, and drew himself on to the topmast-landing over the outside. When he had gained the landing, he came to a halt; and previous to pursuing his progress, in which he had yet made but little way, swept his eye round the horizon.

“A sail to leeward, Sir!” he cried to Hildebrand.

Hildebrand, thus addressed, turned his eye in the direction specified; but, though he surveyed the horizon earnestly, could discern no trace of the reported ship.

“Three more sail to leeward, Sir!” cried Halyard.

Again Hildebrand turned his eye on the horizon.

“Three more sail to leeward, Sir!” cried Halyard.

Hildebrand’s countenance became more grave.

“Ho there! at the helm!” he shouted: “Bear off a point to windward!”

“Ay, ay, Sir!” was the ready answer of the helmsman.

“Now, Senhor, seize thee a grasp of that pin,” said Hildebrand to Don Rafaele, at the same time pointing to a belaying-pin, or hold for a rope, that stood out of the ship’s bulwark.

Don Rafaele, without inquiring the object of such a procedure, grasped at the pin on the instant, and then looked to Hildebrand for further instruction. While his eye yet rested on his face, the helmsman, conformably to his recent orders, suddenly turned the helm, and the ship gave a violent pitch on the water.

Don Rafaele turned pale as he felt the deck tremble under him; but, having a firm hold of the belaying-pin, he maintained his footing with ease.

“Two more sail to leeward, Sir!” cried Halyard.

Hildebrand, after another glance at the horizon, which revealed no more than his former ones, raised himself on the ship’s bulwark, and mounted into the shrouds. Thence he passed to the topmast-landing, and there, coming to a halt, joined Halyard.

In this elevated position, he quickly discerned the topmasts of the nine ships, like so many separate specks, scattered over the verge of the horizon. His survey, however, did not satisfy him, and, after a moment’s pause, he parted from Master Halyard, and pushed up higher aloft.

It was curious, if any one had marked it, to see what an effect his ascent from the deck produced on Don Rafaele. That cavalier had watched the ascent of Master Halyard, described heretofore, with evident interest, but without any show of anxiety; but no sooner did Hildebrand mount the shrouds, than, all at once, he became violently agitated. As he viewed his progress upward, his face became pale and red by turns, as though his blood, according as fear or hope predominated, advanced and receded with the mariner’s every step. When Hildebrand had gained the topmast landing, he seemed, by the deep breath he exhaled, to have quite a burthen taken from his heart, and to become more composed. But his composure lasted only while Hildebrand was stationary. Directly that person mounted the upper shrouds, on his way to the top-gallant mast, his emotion revived, and became even more and more lively. He scarcely breathed till he saw him gain the foot of the top-gallant mast. But when, with no help but the adjacent tackle, which appeared to be hardly strong enough to hold up its pulleys, Hildebrand hoisted himself to the yards above, he seemed to lose himself in his excessive agitation. His face fairly quivered; his lips parted, as it seemed, in speechless terror; and, every now and then, he turned away his eyes, as though their continued contemplation of Hildebrand’s giddy height could not be endured.

At length he beheld Hildebrand clinging round the crowning spar of the ship. As the ship rose and fell over the waves, the slender mast, if it might be called a mast, rocked him to and fro, and appeared on the point of snapping asunder every moment. Don Rafaele would have been concerned for a bird in such a dizzying situation. He could look up no longer: if he raised his eyes, he felt giddy himself, and his head swam again. Apprehensive that his agitation might excite remark, which, whatever was his motive, he evidently desired earnestly to avoid, he was about to turn away, when he heard Hildebrand call out.

“Ho, Master Halyard!”

“Ay, ay, Sir!”

“Four more sail to leeward, Sir!”

Don Rafaele, overcome with terror, covered his eyes with his hand. He felt as though the fate of Hildebrand depended on him, and that, if he looked up, the giddiness he would feel would seize on Hildebrand, and cast him down headlong. With this feeling, he remained perfectly still for several successive minutes. The brief interval seemed an age; and the uninterrupted rise and fall of his noble chest, which his declining attitude only revealed more fully, showed that it stirred within him the deepest emotion. While he was yet thus agitated, he felt some one’s hand laid gently on his arm, and, starting round, he found Hildebrand at his side.

His soft black eyes sparkled again as he beheld him in safety.

“In sooth, now,” he said, with a bright smile, “I never thought to see thee here again. Madonna! but thy dexterity is exceeding marvellous!”

“Thou thinkest so,” answered Hildebrand, “but mariners, who go aloft for mere sport, hold it lightly. But I grieve to say, we shall even need to have marvellous dexterity afore to-morrow.”

“Is danger so nigh?” asked Don Rafaele.

“Within sight, Senhor,” returned Hildebrand. “But I care not for it myself: my only care is for thee.”

“In faith, I thank thee,” said Don Rafaele, in an earnest tone. “But let thy heart be light. I am right content to be with thee; and, ’fore God, could I be safe back again at Cadiz, I would prefer me to be in peril at thy side. Be of good heart, then. I am no way afeard.”

“Beshrew me, but thou makest me love thee,” said Hildebrand.

“Would God I did!” murmured the cavalier. But, seeing that Hildebrand was about to reiterate his declaration of attachment, he added quickly, with some embarrassment,—“Well, well, I believe it. But I must below. This change of motion makes me reel.”

“Thou wilt be more at ease below, then,” observed Hildebrand. “Moreover, my pantler, by his presence at the hatchway here, invites us down to dinner.”

The pantler, or steward, whose appearance on the deck was thus considered introductory to dinner, was standing in the contiguous hatchway; but on the instant that he was sensible of having incurred Hildebrand’s attention, he receded from the aperture, and retired to the cabin. Thither he was quickly followed by Hildebrand and Don Rafaele, and, in a short time afterwards, by Master Halyard, who also was in the secret of his noonday visit to the after-hatchway.

Their meal was soon despatched. When they had brought it to a close, Master Halyard, rising from the table, announced it to be his intention to “turn-in,” as he conjectured that they would that night have little opportunity of taking their usual rest.

“I’faith, no!” answered Hildebrand. “And with thy good leave, Senhor,” he added, to Don Rafaele, “I will even commend me to an hour’s sleep myself.”

“Prithee do,” said Don Rafaele, with an appearance of solicitude. “Thou wilt be the better for ’t.”

“’Twould not be amiss for thee,” replied Hildebrand. “Afore midnight, we may, if this breeze continue, be all confusion.”

“Well, well, I will lay me down,” returned the young cavalier; “for though I be in no mind for sleep, my giddiness doth ill qualify me to sit up.”

With these words, he rose from the table, and turned round to his berth. Planting his feet on the locker, and holding on by the panel above, he easily raised himself to his berth, and scrambled on to the bed within. Hildebrand disposed himself in the berth opposite, and Master Halyard, to use his own phrase, “hove-to” in a hammock, in the steerage, without the cabin-door.

Although Don Rafaele had not retired to his berth with the intention of seeking repose, but had thrown himself down without undressing, he had not been long in a recumbent posture, reflecting on the various circumstances of his situation, before he was overtaken by sleep. It was, however, a restless slumber, broken by repeated starts, and was not calculated to refresh or invigorate him. Still he slept on; and an increased violence in the ship’s motion, and a variety of noises that prevailed on the deck above, with other adverse incidents, alike failed to awake him.

It was quite dark when he did awake. The ship was pitching a little; and this, with the darkness that prevailed, and the solemn silence, broken only by a solitary footfall overhead, pacing the quarter-deck, or an occasional creaking of the mainmast, depressed him severely. He was soon to have more serious cause for dejection. While he was musing what course he should pursue, and whether it would be better, as the night had now set in, to remain in his berth, or to take a turn on the deck, the silence that prevailed was suddenly interrupted by the clamour of several voices. Footsteps were then heard passing over the deck, and, after a brief pause, the rolling of a drum broke on his ear.

The stirring call to arms rolled through the ship like thunder. Scarcely had its echoing voice been awakened, when sounds of stir and bustle, including all manner of noises, rose from every part of the ship. In a few minutes, however, both the rolling of the drum, and the din that it created, and which was even more spirit-stirring, died away; and except for the passage of an occasional footstep over the deck, or the sound of a voice, raised somewhat above the ordinary pitch, all was quiet.

It might reasonably be expected, from his youth, and his gallant appearance, which one could hardly separate from ideas of manliness, that Don Rafaele could not hear the martial rolling of the drum without feeling some of those animating impulses which it was so eminently calculated to excite. But, however reasonable such an expectation might be, the issue no way bore it out. Far from inspiring him with courage, the stirring alarum, with the various and conflicting noises that ensued, struck him with a panic; and he felt more inclined to cover himself with the bedclothes, than eager for action. His excitement was so intense, that it pervaded his whole frame; and, as the din on deck continued, he trembled in every limb. He grew more composed after a while; but whether from fear, or that the excitement he sustained had affected his nerves, and so was beyond his control, he was still excessively agitated. Nevertheless, he no longer seemed disposed to remain in his berth. As the restored silence was prolonged, he planted his two hands firmly on his bed, and made an effort to rise. Just as he had raised himself up, the roar of artillery burst on his ear; and the ship, which had been sailing pretty steadily a moment previous, reeled under the shock of a dozen cannon.