Another night passes, and there are no indications of runners having tried to escape us; but at sunrise we see, far to the south, a schooner, and soon the flagship signals that a prize has been taken by one of our fleet. It looks very much like the schooner we let go yesterday, and our head officers swear, if it _is_ that schooner, never to let another go so easily. One declares the vessel is loaded with cotton, and worth at least $100,000, but that, notwithstanding, he will sell his share for $500 in good gold. No one bids so high. Our ensign offers his for one dollar, and the paymaster sells his to the surgeon for fifty cents, the magnificence of which bargain the latter learns from the captain, who says his share will be about seven and a half cents! We steam alongside, and learn that our prize is the schooner St. George, bound for Wilmington, via the Bermudas, with a cargo of salt, saltpetre, etc., and worth perhaps four thousand dollars. We send our prize list on board the flagship, and have a nice chat over the capture. It puts us in good humor, and our vessels _chassée_ around each other till afternoon, when we separate, to hear shortly that the schooner, on being searched, has disclosed rich merchandise, gold, Whitworth guns, &c., hidden under her nominal cargo of salt. So hurra again for our prize list! This _almost_ makes up for the loss of the steamer. As we are on the point of letting go our anchor, the distant boom of cannon is heard, and the flagship orders us to repair to the seat of danger with all speed. We haste away, and as we go, hear a third gun fired. It comes from the direction of the brig Perry, and we cut through the water toward it, at a twelve-knot rate, for a good half hour, but hearing no more firing, put in near the shore to watch for the rebel vessel, as we think those guns were intended to put us on our guard. It soon grows dark; lights are ordered out, and each man blinds his port. No talking above a whisper must be heard; we are to be still as an arctic night. Midnight passes, and lights still flicker along the shore. It is so dark we cannot see the land, though not more than a mile from it, and only know what it is by our compass and bearings, and the fires which lighten up the clouds in spots right over them. One, two, and three o'clock have passed; no sail or sound yet, and the night so dark we cannot see a ship's length away. Half past three, and we begin to heave anchor. The rattle of the chains is just enough to drown the sound of paddle wheels should a steamer approach, and the sound of her own wheels would in turn drown our noise; so if one does run in to land, it may be over us, for any warning we should have of its whereabout.