Covered by a boat-cloak, and accommodated with two or three cushions, Eugène’s bed was quite as comfortable as that which he occupied at the Fox and Fiddle. It was long past sunrise when he awoke, and realising his position he ran on deck with a landsman’s usual conviction that he was already miles out at sea. It was startling, and a little disappointing, to observe the quay, the straggling buildings of the town, the lighthouse, and other well-known objects within musket-shot, and to find that the brigantine, in spite of her lively motions, still rode at anchor, not half a cable’s length from a huge, smooth, red buoy, which was dancing and dipping in the morning sun as if it were alive. There was a fresh breeze off shore, and a curl on the green sparkling water that, far away down Channel, beyond the point, swelled into a thousand varying lines of white, while a schooner in the offing might be observed standing out to sea with a double reef in her topsails. One of the crew, sluicing the deck with a bucket of water, that eddied round Eugène’s feet, pointed her out to his mate with an oath, and the mate, a tall strong negro, grinning hideously, replied “Iss! very well!” ‘The Bashful Maid’ herself, rising buoyantly to each succeeding wave, ere with a dip and toss of her bows she sent the heavy spray-drops splashing over her like a seabird, seemed chafing with eagerness to be off. There was but little of the bustle and confusion on board usually produced by clearing out of port. The deck, though wet and slippery, was as clean as a dinner-plate, the yards were squared, the ropes coiled, new sails had been bent, and the last cask of fresh water was swinging over the hold: trim and taut, every spar and every sheet seemed to express “Outward bound,” not to mention a blue-Peter flying at the fore.