Boundless was the wrath of Guevarra: he stamped about the deck, while his long sword became entangled at every stride with his little bandy legs; he curled his bushy whiskers, fumed and blasphemed like a pagan. Save the slaves, all on board, more or less, partook of his chagrin: while smiling at his rage, even I could not avoid a feeling of annoyance; for one becomes jealous of being passed at sea, or beaten by a rival mail, or getting the "go-by" from a friend’s team on a country road. "By the miraculous blood of Gennaro! I will teach these mongrel curs, these Arabian Maltese, to beware how they try speed with his Majesty’s galley. Is the gun ready there forward?" "All ready, Signor Capitano," replied the gunner, taking the tompion from the lofty forecastle-piece, and lighting his match. "Then give them a shot between wind and water. Madonna speed the ball—fire!" The helmsman brought the galley’s head round, and the thirty-two pounder was levelled and fired. The _Sea-Horse_ shook with the concussion: the shot whistled over the water; a breach was made in the low bulwarks of the Maltese, and a shower of white splinters flew away to leeward. The schooner was immediately thrown in the wind: down came her fore and main topsails, her jib and staysail, like lightning on her deck; while the scarlet flag of Britain was run up to her gaff-peak. The galley shot ahead: her great latteen sail, that tapered away and aloft, was braced sharp up, and once more we flew forward; while the Maltese did not again begin to make sail, until she was a league or so astern. "Bravissimo, _Sea-Horse_!" said Guevarra, clapping his hands in glee. "Now we are leaving her hand over hand." In the ardour of the race he had not been paying due attention to his course; and, in keeping to seaward of the scampavia, which was probably bound for the Venetian Gulf, the galley was further from the land than she ought to have been: her head was turned northward; and, as we slowly approached the Apennine chain, the promontory of Hercules rose gradually on the view. We now made but little progress: the breeze had died away; the heat of the day was intense, for the sirocco was abroad, and the air was flittering with sulphury particles, blown, probably, from the peak of Etna. Wearied with their late exertions, the over-tasked slaves, exposed to the broiling sun, sat gazing listlessly, with their glaring and bloodshot eyes, on the glassy sea; and even the rattan of the drowsy and perspiring boatswain failed to rouse them from their apathy. The little way we made was solely owing to the large square mainsail; and, though the galley lay close to the scarcely perceptible current of air, our progress was not a mile an hour: yet, long before the setting sun began to redden the blue Ionian Sea, Guevarra had the mortification to see the little Maltese pull with her sweeps round the promontory and disappear.