The crew of the _Kestrel_ consisted of less than fifty men, most of them Irishmen. While the work of setting sails and making all snug lasted I had little chance of looking about me, but the impression I formed was that the schooner was not at all worthy of the praise her tipsy captain had bestowed upon her. She was an old craft, with a labouring way of sailing that compared very unfavourably with the _Cigale_ or the _Arrow_. Her guns, about a dozen in all, were of an antiquated type, and badly mounted, and her timbers were old and faulty. As long as we had a sharp east wind astern we had not much to concern us, but I had my misgivings how she would behave in dirty weather with a lee-shore on her quarter. That, however, concerned me less just then than my impatience to get a glimpse of the face of the lieutenant. I volunteered for an extra watch for this purpose, and longed for some excuse to take me aft. Sure enough it came. The same voice rang out again through the darkness:-- "Hand there! come and set the stern light." "Ay, ay, sir," cried I, hurrying to the place. For the first hour or so after slipping our moorings off Havre the _Kestrel_ had remained in perfect darkness. But now that we were beyond sight of the lights ashore there was no occasion for so dangerous a precaution. I unlashed the lantern and took it down to the galley for a light, and then returned with it to the helm. As I did so I could not help turning it full on the face of the man at the tiller. Sure enough it was Tim, grown into a man, with down on his chin, and the weather wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Every inch a sailor and a gentleman he looked as he stood there in his blue flannel suit and peaked cap; the same easy-going, gusty, reckless Tim I had fought with many a time on Fanad cliffs, loving him more for every blow I gave him. When I thought I had lost him, it seemed as if I had lost a part of myself. Now I had found him, I had found myself. "Look alive, my lad," said he. Without a word I fixed the light in its place. I had never, I think, felt so shy and at a loss in my life. At last I could stand it no longer. "Tim, old man, is that really you?" He staggered at the sound of my voice, just as I had staggered at the sound of his, and let go the helm. "Saint Patrick! it's Barry." And I felt his hand on my shoulder, and heard him give a little laugh of wonder. "Fetch that light! Let me have a look at you!" I obeyed, and it would be hard to say which side of the lantern, as it swung between us, witnessed the greatest wonder. "Look to the helm," said I. "She's falling off a point or two." "Ha, ha!" said the joyous Tim, "to think of me manning the helm with you on the ship. Take you it, you dog you, and spin us your yarn." "Not till you tell me how you came to life again. I heard the _Cigale_ was lost with all hands."