Two days after this they sighted the high lands at the mouth of the Rio de la Plata at 10 P.M., and lay to for a pilot. After three hours' delay they were boarded by a pilot-boat, and then began to creep into the port. The night was very dark, and a thin white fog lay on the water. Wylie was sitting on the taffrail and conversing with Slocum, when the lookout forward sung out, "Sail ho!" Another voice almost simultaneously yelled out of the fog, "Port your helm!" Suddenly out of the mist, and close aboard the _Maria,_ appeared the hull and canvas of a large ship. The brig was crossing her course, and her great bowsprit barely missed the brig's mainsail. It stood for a moment over Wylie's head. He looked up, and there was the figure-head of the ship looming almost within his reach. It was a colossal green woman; one arm extended grasped a golden harp, the other was pressed to her head in the attitude of holding back her wild and flowing hair. The face seemed to glare down upon the two men. In another moment the monster, gliding on, just missing the brig, was lost in the fog. "That was a narrow squeak," said Slocum. Wylie made no answer, but looked into the darkness after the vessel. He had recognized her figure-head. It was the _Shannon!_ CHAPTER XIV. BEFORE the _Maria_ sailed again, with the men who formed a part of Wylie's crew, he made them sign a declaration before the English Consul at Buenos Ayres. This document set forth the manner in which the _Proserpine_ foundered; it was artfully made up of facts enough to deceive a careless listener; but, when Wylie read it over to them he slurred over certain parts, which he took care, also, to express in language above the comprehension of such men. Of course they assented eagerly to what they did not understand, and signed the statement conscientiously. So Wylie and his three men were shipped on board the _Boadicea,_ bound for Liverpool, in Old England, while the others sailed with Captain Slocum for Nantucket, in New England. The _Boadicea_ was a clipper laden with hides and a miscellaneous cargo. For seventeen days she flew before a southerly gale, being on her best sailing point, and, after one of the shortest passages she had ever made, she lay to, outside the bar, off the Mersey. It wanted but one hour to daylight, the tide was flowing; the pilot sprang aboard. "What do you draw?" he asked of the master. "Fifteen feet, barely," was the reply. "That will do," and the vessel's head was laid for the river. They passed a large bark, with her topsails backed. "Ay," remarked the pilot, "she has waited since the half-ebb; there ain't more than four hours in the twenty-four that such craft as that can get in." "What is she? An American liner?" asked Wylie, peering through the gloom. "No," said the pilot; "she's an Australian ship. She's the _Shannon,_ from Sydney."