“Land, on the larboard bow!” cried Tom Tarpaulin, from the head of the top-gallant mast. “Land, on the larboard bow!” cried a dozen voices, from various parts of the ship. All was bustle and excitement in a moment. Even Don Rafaele, who had scarcely been able to steady himself hitherto, comprehending what the cry signified, sprang nimbly to the side of the ship, and looked anxiously round the horizon. Trusting entirely to instinct, however, he made a slight mistake in the direction, and, instead of going to the larboard bow, posted straight to the starboard. He was gazing earnestly round, when Hildebrand, who had observed his error, came up with him, and led him to the proper quarter. Leaving the quarter-deck, they passed to the forecastle, where they were able, from their greater elevation, to view the horizon more fully. Some little time elapsed, however, before Hildebrand, with all his quick sight, could fix the object which he wished to point out to Don Rafaele. At last, he achieved his purpose, and succeeded in bringing it under that person’s observation. It was like a mist, rising out of the water, on the extreme verge of the horizon; and appeared to be no larger than a man’s hand. Gradually--but by very slow degrees--it grew more apparent, and, after the eye had rested on it for a short space longer, presented a bold and distinct outline. On this simple object the inmates of the good ship “Eliza” gazed earnestly for several successive minutes. The most protracted gaze elicited no more than was seen by a first and cursory glance; but, though they were not ignorant of this, every one still looked upon it, after they had viewed it over and over again, with unabated interest. It was a landmark, and, though it was land that they were never to tread, it connected them, by association, and by the train of images that it involuntarily forced into their minds, with the world that they had left, and showed that the wide waste of waters around was not their only home. For a little time, Hildebrand and Don Rafaele surveyed the dim landmark in silence. After he had satisfied his curiosity respecting its aspect, however, the latter person, in his usual musical voice, proceeded to inquire its name. “And what land may that be, Senhor?” he inquired of Hildebrand. “’Tis the island of St. George, one of the Azores,” answered Hildebrand. “Be the Azores on the way to England?” asked Don Rafaele, with some surprise. Hildebrand, from whatever motive, made no reply at the moment; but, turning round, first led him back to the quarter-deck. When they had come to their former position, by the after-hatchway, he rendered an explanation. “Of a surety, they are not in the direct way to England, Senhor,” he said, “for our purpose does not take us thither straight. ’Twas for this, and not that I liked not thy fair company, that I hesitated to bring thee with us from Cadiz.”