The sun was high in the heavens, and a long line of dazzling sunshine, looking more like light than reflection, was spread out in the wake of the ship, making the white surf that marked her course fairly sparkle. The sky, though so high over head, was almost transparent, and the few clouds that broke its vast arch were light and buoyant, and served rather to relieve its sameness, than to contract its beauty. Nor were there wanting objects of interest on the water. Looking over the ship’s side, Don Rafaele beheld, at a little distance, squadrons of gulls, not unvaried in their plumage, sailing gaily by, or occasionally mounting into the air, and wheeling round and round towards the sky. Alongside was the active porpoise, rolling over and over on the waves, and seeming, by the regularity of his progress, to measure his speed to that of the ship. Every now and then, too, a lively bonito, either from mere sportiveness, or to avoid some approaching and voracious enemy, would leap bodily into the air, and, after performing a perfect summerset, drop into the deep again, and be seen no more. If the eye pushed its survey further, the ship herself, viewed from the quarter-deck, presented much to arrest its attention. The white sails, spread out before the wind, which filled them to the brim, were not its most interesting feature. Sailors were perched in various parts of the rigging, on the yards, and in the shrouds, gazing intently for’ard, whose seemingly perilous situation was a more engrossing object. Don Rafaele, unused to the economy of a ship, turned pale as he observed them, and, wheeling round to Hildebrand, he inquired if there was any reason for their being thus disposed. “They are there of their own choice, Senhor,” answered Hildebrand, with a smile. “Surely, no!” returned the incredulous Spaniard. “Indeed, it is even so,” said Hildebrand. “Those birds thou seest yonder, and the scraps of trees and seaweed floating by, tell them we are near land, and they are striving who shall hail it first.” “A merry conceit, truly,” observed Don Rafaele. “See!” he added, pointing to the top-gallant mast, to which the stout frame of Tarpaulin was clinging, “how yon frail stick, every now and anon, bends with the weight of that sturdy man! Couldst thou thus sustain thyself, Sir Lieutenant?” “I am no ways particular, Master Don,” answered Halyard. “No, in sooth?” replied Don Rafaele. “Well, I believe thee; and yet, my life! ’tis a right perilous elevation. I’faith, a hair’s turn would there take life away.” His remark offered a tempting opportunity to Halyard to speak with effect; and though, as Don Rafaele paused, he saw that Hildebrand was about to reply, he interposed immediately, and gave his sentiments utterance. “Well,” he said, very quickly, in order that he might come in before Hildebrand, “life is but short; let us live well on the road, says the gentle Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.”