I.—The Frigate.

The Merry Maid had left the Texel by the narrow gut called De Witt's Diep, with her convoy following in line and in admirable order. The breeze was fair for England. A full round moon rose over the sandbanks behind them as Captain Barker sent the pilots ashore and stood easily out to sea, for the most of his merchant-ships were sluggish sailers, and not a few overladen. So clear was the night that, as he paced the quarter-deck with the dew falling steadily around him, he could not only count their thirty-six lanterns, but even discern their piled canvas glimmering as they stole like ghosts in his wake.

That night he left his watch for an hour only, when shortly before dawn Captain Runacles came to relieve him, threatening mutiny unless he retired to snatch a little slumber. But the sun was scarce up before the little man reappeared. The pride of his old profession was working like yeast within him. His breast swelled and his chin lifted as he found the convoy still sailing in close order, obeying his signals smoothly and intelligently as a trained pack obeys its huntsman. He was delighted with the frigate and her crew, who were English to a man. To be sure there was a fair sprinkling of Dutchmen among the soldiers; but his heart had begun to warm somewhat towards that nation. As he shambled to and fro, jerking out from time to time some necessary orders, he saw that he had the respect of all these fellows, even while they smiled at him. They felt that this distorted little framework held a man. He divined this with the quick sensibility that marks all deformed people. His green eyes kindled. In the pride of his soul he had almost forgotten Tristram.

The sight of the English coast, dim and purple beneath the declining sun, brought it back to him with a pang. After all, Tristram was still lost, and his journey to Holland had been a failure therefore. With a sudden contempt for all that a moment before he had been enjoying, he turned to his friend and asked him to take charge for a while.

Nothing more was said, but Captain Runacles guessed what drove the little man below like a wounded beast, and began to pace the deck gloomily.

"He'll never take it up again," he muttered. "It's all very well, and he thinks he's getting comfort out of it. But it won't do."

He paused for a moment, contemplated the distant coast and resumed his tread, repeating: "It won't do, Jack; it won't do a bit, my boy."

Captain Barker sat in his cabin alone, staring at a knot of wood on the table before him. There were traces of tears on his cheeks.

Somebody tapped at the door.

"What is it?"

"The devil," answered Captain Runacles' voice, coolly. "Six galleys to the south, between us and the Thames!"

Captain Barker sprang up and hurried up on deck.

"So those are the craft I've heard so much about," he remarked, taking down the glass through which he had been eyeing them for a couple of minutes.

"What do you propose, Jack?"

"Propose? Why, propose to do what I'm here for—to save the convoy."

"That's very pretty. But do you know how fast those sharks can move?"

"No, I don't. But I know they can outpace us. Nevertheless, I'll save the convoy."

"How?"

"There's only one way."

"And that is—"

"By losing the frigate."

Captain Runacles looked at him for a second, and then placed a hand on his shoulder. This simple gesture expressed all his heart. Captain Barker turned briskly.

"Signal the convoy," he shouted, "to make all sail and run for the Thames!"