They were off now. At a word, sail after sail had unfurled, and beautiful under her enormous spread of white canvas, the "Lightfoot" "trod the waters like a thing of life." Ned was fascinated at this manifestation of drilled power. Every man on the ship had moved as a part of one great machine, and his imagination took fire. It seemed audacious that men should show such strength. Ferguson seemed to have guessed his thoughts, for later when the shores of England were fading from view, he said--"Look ahead now, Ned." Behind them the sun was shining, but before them the Atlantic rolled, a mighty heaving waste of gray waves, under a heavy sky piled with lowering storm clouds. A heaved-up ridge of water caught the "Lightfoot", she rose on its height, and slid down as it passed--a plaything of the sullen sea. Suddenly she seemed small to Ned, a winged insect fluttering in the grasp of the terrible ocean. "The sea is His, He made it," cried Ferguson in mingled awe and exaltation, "I am afraid when I think of His infinite power, yet this awful God is mine--my Lord and my Lover," and his voice sank to a thrilling softness as he said the last word. By night Ned had forgotten Ferguson and everything. With most of the unhappy soldiers he was horribly seasick, faintly wishing that some enemy might in charity sink the "Lightfoot" with all on board her. Even this, however, finally passed. He felt an interest in living once more and even in eating again. A few men, Ferguson among them, remained sick and stayed so all the voyage, crawling shakily about when the sea was very smooth, and collapsing at a hint of rough weather. Every morning each man received his rations for the day, cooked meat--salt beef or pork--pease-pudding, some rice or porridge, sea biscuits, a little sugar and butter, a pint of hot cocoa, some rum, and three quarts of drinking water. The fare was coarse, but it was wholesome and abundant, and Ned enjoyed it. Sells, a ruffianly looking man whose hammock hung next to his, swore at everything. "Dog's food, that's what it is," he growled, "And do you know what they're eating aft? Every morning there's a dish of chocolate or coffee, with cakes and biscuits, and all the butter they like. Then biscuit and cheese at noon, and a high class dinner at night with fresh fowls and meat--they've live sheep, and pigs, and chickens on board for themselves--and potatoes, and pickles, and plum-pudding, with porter and wine. Then they have a supper of coffee and cake, and preserves, and more wine. Curses on all rich, I say." He closed with a stream of profanity which brought Ferguson, pale and shaken, to his feet with a stern--"Thou shalt not take the Name of the Lord thy God in vain."