The schooner had made an unmolested run across the ocean, and was now standing out of the river, to the southward of St. Felipe de Benguela, upon which the factory was situated where she always obtained her cargo of Africans, as when we first saw her coming out of the same river on a farmer voyage; her hold was crowded with miserable captives, and her crew were armed and vigilant, as they always were when they had slaves on board. Willis and his mate were standing far aft, near the tafferel, in conversation. “I feel, Mateo,” said the captain, “as if we were going to have a safe and a quick trip this time, to make up for the two or three failures we have had lately; and I suppose you know, if we get in safe this time, I am going to cut and quit the trade. And we are now making a good start for a lucky run, for the wind is fair, and nothing in sight.” “By St. Jago! I wish we may have a lucky run,” replied the mate. “Not because I wish you to quit the trade, for a better or a braver captain to sail with I never expect to mess with again; and I know you believe what I say, though it is spoken to your face, sir. It has now been four years since we first sailed together, but I have a dread or presentiment that the Maraposa will never see Cuba again, and that both our voyages are nearly over.” “Pooh! pooh, man!” said Willis, “you have been drinking, and have the vapors; that is all that ails you. Go below and take another good nip of cogniac, and you will feel as well and confident as ever!” “You can laugh at me as much as you please, captain; but I have not drank of any thing stronger than coffee these three days; and I only hope I will prove as false a prophet as that d—d negro Obi man we hung two years ago, for trying to burn the schooner; and who said you and I both would stretch hemp before the year was out.” “We have had time to prove, Mateo, he did not know what he was talking about, and in a month more, when we have landed this cargo, and handled the dollars, you will find you are as much mistaken as he was. But I wish you would jump up to the fore-topsail yard and see if you can make out any thing. I fear that infernal sloop-of-war that chased us so hard, when we had to run to the northward, more than any thing else.” Mateo, taking a glass, was soon sweeping the horizon from his lofty perch, and in a few moments he sung out— “There she is, blast her! just where she has always managed to be yet, dead to windward! and ahead!” “How is she heading?” asked Willis. “To the nor’ard, sir; and about fifteen miles off.” “Very well, Mateo, we will try to get to the westward of her before she makes much more northing, and if I can show her the Maraposa’s stern, then we will get in before she can overhaul us.”