“Aye, lad, and ’tis an unco’ inspirin’ sicht tae watch the sun rise abune this weary waste o’ waters like the speerit o’ life. ’Tis mony a sunrise I’ve watched syne I was a wee bit laddie ... an’ ’tis nae wonder ’twas worshipped by the ancients as a god.... See, yonder he comes, a flamin’ majesty! Could ony human mind conceive anything sae glorious, sae deevine, sae—— Ten thousand deevils! Look yonder! Ahoy, Sharkie—Sharkie man!” Glancing whither Sir Hector’s long finger pointed, Sir John espied the top-gallant sails of a ship uprearing from the mists of dawn, topsails of radiant glory flushing from scarlet to pink, from pink to saffron, and so at last to shining gold. Slowly the vessel herself came into view, her high, clean bow, the line of her grinning gun-ports. Suddenly from her fore-chase gushed roaring flame, and round shot hissed athwart the lugger’s forefoot. And now upon the _True Believer’s_ deck was a scurring of men, silent no longer—men who cursed and laughed, shouting and pointing, yet never in each other’s way, taking their appointed stations like the true sailor-men they were, and who stared, one and all, from their pursuer to the brown-faced, serene man who neither shouted nor pointed, but stood with Sir Hector, gazing at the oncoming brig in dispassionate judgment of her pace—and all voices were hushed awaiting his command. When at last he spoke, his word was obeyed on the jump; reefs were loosed, shaken out and hauled taut, lee-stays eased, and the _True Believer_, heeling to the wind, drove hissing upon her course at increased speed. “What ship’s yon, Sharkie man?” inquired Sir Hector of the imperturbable man beside him. “’Tis the _Seahorse_ brig, y’r honour ... ten guns out o’ Ryde.... Must ha’ been layin’ hove-to hereabouts in the mist ... waitin’ for us, which is strange ... strange! But there aren’t a craft anywheres along the coast can forereach the _True Believer_ on a wind—aye, or goin’ free, much less yon lubberly brig!” quoth the placid Sharkie, balancing himself serenely upon the sloping deck. “John!” cried Sir Hector, clutching a weather-brace in one hand and flourishing the other towards the speaker. “This is ma frien’, Sharkie Nye, a man o’ sound judgment except i’ the doctrine o’ Predestination! Sharkie man, this is Sir—umph!—John Derwent, wha I ha’ kenned from his cradle, and moreover, Sharkie—— Losh, man—yon was nearish!” he exclaimed as a round-shot hummed between their raking masts. “Aye, y’r honour, though I’ve ’ad ’em nearer afore now!” nodded Mr. Nye; “but we’ll be out o’ reach in a bit if none o’ our gear is carried away or——” A rending crash, a whirr of flying splinters and a gaping rent appeared in the _True Believer’s_ bulwarks forward. “That,” quoth Mr. Nye, viewing the damage with calculating eye, “that were a bit nearer, sir. Forward there!” he roared suddenly. “Any on ye hurt?” “Nary a soul, Sharkie!” a cheery voice roared back; “us du be layin’ low-like!”