Roderic surveyed the chase as calmly and critically as though it were a college regatta, with an ordinary loving cup as the stake instead of his own liberty, perhaps his life. "Captain, we shall make it," he said, quietly. "Undoubtedly," replied laconic Beven, whose practiced eye had also measured the distance yet to be traversed, and the slow if steady gain made by their pursuers. "Steady, boys, do your level best," he added, and the sturdy tars grunted as they strained at the oars until the veins stood out like whip cords on their brows. Meanwhile from the pursuing craft came a variety of oaths and exclamations characteristic of the bold adventurer Shackelford, and by means of which he doubtless expected to secure better work from his toiling men; while Jerome, having recovered his tongue, and boiling over with rage, joined his shrill voice to that of the captain, promising fabulous rewards--which he would doubtless pay in notes if called upon--should they overhaul the will-o'-the-wisp boat that tauntingly kept just so far ahead. It was quite exciting while it lasted. This romantic harbor in the peaceful Azores had seldom known a more remarkable scene. Pity it was the darkness robbed those who might have enjoyed the spectacle, of such a rare sight. The steam yacht was now close at hand and while those who pursued still kept up their mad pace it must have been painfully evident to them that the chase was hopeless. Perhaps the daring spirit who led them on had desperate designs of boarding the yacht and dragging away the object of their vindictive spleen. Captain Beven was holding the tiller ropes and under his skillful guidance the yawl turned the yacht's stern, coming up alongside. Instantly a hand clutched the painter. "Aboard with you!" called the skipper. Roderic was the first to spring on deck, but the others were at his heels. To sight the oncoming boat was now their design, and accordingly they leaped across the deck, believing Shackelford would head direct for that nearer quarter. Nor were they mistaken in this surmise, for as they reached the rail the boat from the blockade runner shot under them and hauled up alongside. CHAPTER XV. CAPTAIN BOB GUESSES NOT. Shackelford was a daring spirit, one of those Britons who have carried the flag into remote passes of the Indian border, and whom the desperate fortunes of war never daunt. He had doubtless led charges into the jaws of death, and passed through adventures enough to fill volumes. In this case however, it was Tartar against Tartar--British bulldog _vs._ British mastiff. When he rubbed up against such men as Beven and Roderic Owen, he met those who were of his own calibre, and should the affair come to blows it promised to be a pretty sight.