*CHAPTER XVI.* *THE RACE.—GALLEY-SLAVES.* "Yonder is Rhegium, signor," said the Captain Guevarra; "where Eolus dwelt before he removed his government over to Sicily; and where he sold fair winds to mariners, and tied the foul ones up in paper bags—the cursed heathen! And yet it would be some advantage if such commodities could be purchased in these vulgar modern days. I have known the time when I would have given sixty pieces of gold for a single puff of fair wind: but that was before I had the honour of commanding his Majesty’s galley _Sea-Horse_ and all those stout rogues who work it.—Ah! Madonna mia!" he ejaculated, crossing himself, as we walked on the weather side of the poop; "what is all this I have been saying? Our Lady of Sicily forgive me the thought, and keep me contented with such winds as pass over the sea, without buying from heathen, heretic, or devil!—Viva! how bravely the old _Sea-Horse_ shoots through the water! Believe me, Signor Dundas, there is not another galley in the service of his Sicilian Majesty equalling this, for strength, speed, and beauty of mould." "Yet there is a little vessel yonder, cracking on under every stitch of canvass, which seems able and disposed to beat you." "Beat the _Sea-Horse_—beat his Majesty’s galley!" cried the little commander, stamping his feet on the deck. "Corpo di Baccho! if any man on board, save yourself, signor, had even hinted that such a thing was possible, I would have dropped him from the yard-arm with a forty-pound shot at his heels: I would, this instant—I, Gandolfo Guevarra." After this outburst, I did not venture on another remark; and we walked up and down in silence. Between us and Cape Pillari, a swift little Maltese schooner, of a most rakish cut, was flying through the water, with her snow-white canvass shining in the sun, and bellying out to the breeze; while her flashing sweeps were moving, stroke for stroke, with those of the galley, which she was evidently leaving astern. She was low-built, almost level with the water, which she cleft like an arrow. "Ola! the boatswain," cried Guevarra, perspiring with rage, which made every fibre of his little body quiver, while he twisted his long moustachios and looked fierce as a rat at bay. "By the blood of Gennaro! that villainous craft is leaving us astern. Shall a runaway of Malta, laden with base merchandize, beat his Majesty’s galley the _Sea-Horse_? No, no—Madonna! Quick, rascal, there! fly-flap the shoulders of the oarsmen, or your own shall smart before sunset.—And you, signor—master-gunner." "Si signor illustrissimo." "Ready—the gun there, forward; to teach these vagabonds to keep their distance, and not attempt to rival those who sail under his Majesty’s pennant."