I surrendered the spokes to my cousin and mounted the steps with eagerness and expectation; I had caught a note of excitement in my sweetheart’s voice. The shift of helm had brought the wind almost directly over the stern of the brig; I looked along the white line of her wake, thinking to see the ship at the extremity of it, but, beholding nothing, I asked Mr. Bates where the sail was. He pointed over the lee quarter, and there to be sure hung a big dim cloud of canvas. The moon was low and without power; the stars had grown wan since midnight, as though to the approach of dawn or as if to a gathering of windy thickness; the ship astern was visible by a kind of light of her own in her canvas--she showed as an iceberg might by night, or a tall snow-covered hill. I stood near Tom, the mate joined us, and we watched the white shadow growing out of the gloom. Our change, of course, so postured the stranger that in a manner of speaking she was crossing our stern, so that she’d pass on our weather quarter close to. ‘I believe it’s she--I believe it’s she!’ Tom muttered, speaking to himself. Nothing was said for some time. The foam broke from under our counter in a trail of light like the glittering scar left by a meteor in the sky. We were washing through it at seven knots, and the great dim cloud of canvas astern at eleven or twelve. She had now shaped herself into a clear outline against the thin stars, and I could see the white water boiling at her forefoot. ‘Captain Butler,’ exclaimed the mate, in a voice of agitation, ‘that’s the _Childe Harold_!’ ‘Yes! She’s the convict ship,’ said Tom, catching me by the hand. ‘Do you see that her main-royal lies furled? Whither away? Whither away?’ cried he, looking at the ship. ‘Fore and maintopmast stu’n’sails!’ exclaimed Mr. Bates. His voice quivered, now he recognised the ship he was first officer of but a little while gone. She loomed up upon our quarter in a thunderous heap of pallid flying shadow, and the low red western moon and the lean stars and the throb of black waters, flashful with foam, ridging southwards, were the fittest setting the night could have contrived for her; and that deep spirit of desolation which in the dark hours of the ocean morning spreads out of the gloomy distance was present and abounding. She showed no light, but the foam which broke in masses from her bows and fled along her sides swift as smoke touched the fabric of the noble ship’s hull with its own radiance, and we viewed her as though by moonlight.