And the hope was quickly fulfilled, for scarcely had another half-hour elapsed when he observed a sail--the high-peaked sail peculiar to some Mediterranean craft--rise, ghost-like, out of the driving foam and spray. The vessel was making almost straight for him; he knew that it would pass before there could be time to heave a rope. At the risk of being run down he rowed the punt in front of it, as if courting destruction, but at the same time guided his little craft so skilfully that it passed close to leeward, where the vessel's bulwarks were dipping into the water. Our middy's aim was so exact that the vessel only grazed the boat as it flew past. In that moment young Foster sprang with the agility of a cat, capsized the boat with the impulse, caught the bulwarks and rigging of the vessel, and in another moment stood panting on her deck. "Hallo! Neptune, what do _you_ want here?" cried a gruff voice at Foster's elbows. At the same time a powerful hand grasped his throat, and a lantern was thrust in his face. "Let go, and I will tell you," gasped the youth, restraining his indignation at such unnecessary violence. The grasp tightened, however, instead of relaxing. "Speak out, baby-face," roared the voice, referring, in the latter expression, no doubt, to our hero's juvenility. Instead of speaking out, George Foster hit out, and the voice with the lantern went down into the lee scuppers! Then, the glare of the lantern being removed from his eyes, George saw, by the light of the binnacle lamp, that his adversary, a savage-looking Turk--at least in dress--was gathering himself up for a rush, and that the steersman, a huge negro, was grinning from ear to ear. "Go below!" said a deep stern voice in the Arabic tongue. The effect of this order was to cause the Turk with the broken lantern to change his mind, and retire with humility, while it solemnised the negro steersman's face almost miraculously. The speaker was the captain of the vessel; a man of grave demeanour, herculean mould, and clothed in picturesque Eastern costume. Turning with quiet politeness to Foster, he asked him in broken French how he had come on board. The youth explained in French quite as much broken as that of his interrogator. "D'you speak English?" he added. To this the captain replied in English, still more shattered than his French, that he could, "a ver' leetil," but that as he, (the youth), was a prisoner, there would be no occasion for speech at all, the proper attitude of a prisoner being that of absolute silence and obedience to orders. "A prisoner!" ejaculated Foster, on recovering from the first shock of surprise. "Do you know that I am an officer in the Navy of his Majesty the King of Great Britain?" A gleam of satisfaction lighted up the swarthy features of the Turk for a moment as he replied-- "Ver goot. Ransum all de more greater." As he spoke, a call from the look-out at the bow of the vessel induced him to hurry forward.