"If the weather continues to grow heavier, which I have no doubt of, sir, instead of running the risk of having your yacht driven ashore by the wind and the currents before it gets into the port of Malta, I advise you to double Point Harrach, and, instead of going ashore on the northern side of the island, to land on the southern coast in the little harbour of Marsa-Siroco, where you will find good anchorage. If, as you say, your yacht rises well to the wind, there will be nothing to prevent her manœuvring when she is once under shelter of the island, and, in case the storm grows worse, she will run no risk of being dashed ashore, because she will have before her the hundred leagues that separate Malta from the north coast of Africa." "That proposition is a cowardly one, pilot," cried out Williams; "a Flemish tub would do better than that. My lord wishes positively to anchor in the port of Malta to-night, and I say it can be done." "Then you must take the wheel yourself, sir," replied the pilot, with his independent air; then going astern, he called in English to the sailors who had remained in his sailboat, "Hello! Hello, there; get ready to cast off, we are going back to Harrach." When I heard the clear and penetrating voice of the pilot, except the different language, it surely sounded like the voice and accent of the man in the black hood, who, a moment before the boarding of the yacht, cried out to his pirate crew, "Don't fire! Board her!" Williams, seeing that the pilot was really getting ready to leave, told him to wait a moment, and he would go and consult with my lord; then he disappeared. I remained on deck in a state of the greatest perplexity. I was almost sure that I recognised the voice and the peculiar teeth of this man, but could not this be a remarkable case of similarity? What chance was there that a man who had been wounded and thrown into the sea, barely eight days ago, should be this Maltese pilot, so vigorous and strong? I continued to watch the pilot steadily; he never changed countenance. Tired, no doubt, of being so fixedly stared at, he advanced towards me, and said, boldly: "What have you got to say to me, monsieur?" "Have you been a pilot at Malta any length of time?" I asked him. "For the last seven years, monsieur," and he showed me his large silver medal, hung on a long chain of the same metal, which he wore under his cape. On the medal I read the name Joseph Belmont, royal pilot, No. 18. On the other side of the medal were the royal arms of England. "But you are a Frenchman," said I to him, speaking French. "_Oui_, monsieur," he replied. I was more astonished even than before. Williams now appeared on deck, and, addressing the pilot, said: "Go ahead, do as you think best. My lord has given his consent."