When the vessel was thus fairly under way, Barbara walked aft to speak to her passengers. Sir Parke Morelle met her half way. Sir Parke looked pale and unnerved. He had never made a sea voyage further than from Dover to Calais, or from Liverpool to Cork, in all his life, and to begin at his age to cross the Atlantic ocean, in such an egg-shell as the Petrel, with such an extraordinary captain as this young girl, was, notwithstanding the opinion of Montressor,—“indiscreet—to say the least, indiscreet.” He had stepped upon the planks of the deck with feelings fearfully akin to those of a condemned criminal stepping upon the flooring of a scaffold. He had watched Barbara walking fore and aft giving her orders as though she had been the sheriff giving directions for his execution. Every order that she gave, and that the men obeyed, seemed to precipitate his fate! He had serious thoughts of forfeiting his passage money, and offering Barbara a handsome remuneration for putting him back on shore. But a latent confidence in Lord Montressor’s judgment and a sense of shame for his own nervousness, restrained him from proceeding to that length. But now meeting Miss Brande, he accosted her with: “Young woman, I would like to have a few moments conversation with you.” “I am at your service, sir.” “Turn about then, if you please.” Barbara complied. Now, Sir Parke Morelle was as considerable a “landlubber” as could be found in all England or America. He was, in his profound ignorance of nautical affairs, quite competent to be a U. S. Secretary of the Navy. As they walked forward he said: “Ahem—aha. Young woman——” “I beg your pardon, sir, I am called Barbara Brande.” “Ahem—Miss Brande, can you rely upon your own competency for a—for taking care of this vessel.” Barbara Brande’s great, strong black eyes flashed down upon him with an expression that made the autocrat of Hyde Hall quail. “I could rely upon myself to take care of a fleet!” was upon her tongue’s end. But Barbara possessed the rare virtue of self-control, and pitying the poor old man who had neither the physical courage to go fearlessly to sea with her nor the moral courage to confess his weakness and stay home—she answered: “Sir Parke, I have two little brothers on board whom I love better than my own life. They are hostages for your safety.” “I do not understand you, Miss Brande.” “Nor did I engage to furnish you with an understanding,” thought Barbara, but repressing herself, she replied:—“Loving Willful and Edwy as I love my own soul, I never would have taken them on this voyage had I not known myself in every respect fully competent to take care of the vessel and of them, as well as any captain in the merchant’s service could do.” “But you are a woman,” said Sir Parke, still hesitating. Another flash of the great black eyes, and Barbara warming up, replied: “Well, sir! am I on trial for being a woman, or for being a sea-captain, which?”