“Is that the man?” interrupted the cockswain, pointing toward a man who was standing not far from them, an attentive observer of their proceedings, the same time that he was narrowly watched himself by the young midshipman. “God send that he knows his trade well, for the bottom of a ship will need eyes to find its road out of this wild anchorage.” “That must indeed be the man!” exclaimed Barnstable, at once recalled to his duty. He then held a short dialogue with his female companion, whom he left concealed by the hedge, and proceeded to address the stranger. When near enough to be heard, the commander of the schooner demanded: “What water have you in this bay?” The stranger, who seemed to expect this question, answered without the least hesitation: “Enough to take all out in safety, who have entered with confidence.” “You are the man I seek,” cried Barnstable; “are you ready to go off?” “Both ready and willing,” returned the pilot, “and there is need of haste. I would give the best hundred guineas that ever were coined for two hours more use of that sun which has left us, or for even the time of this fading twilight.” “Think you our situation so bad?” said the lieutenant. “Follow this gentleman to the boat then; I will join you by the time you can descend the cliffs. I believe I can prevail on another hand to go off with us.” “Time is more precious now than any number of hands,” said the pilot, throwing a glance of impatience from under his lowering brows, “and the consequences of delay must be visited on those who occasion it.” “And, sir, I will meet the consequences with those who have a right to inquire into my conduct,” said Barnstable, haughtily. With this warning and retort they separated; the young officer retracing his steps impatiently toward his mistress, muttering his indignation in suppressed execrations, and the pilot, drawing the leathern belt of his pea-jacket mechanically around his body, as he followed the midshipman and cockswain to their boat, in moody silence. Barnstable found the disguised female who had announced herself as Katherine Plowden, awaiting his return, with intense anxiety depicted on every feature of her intelligent countenance. As he felt all the responsibility of his situation, notwithstanding his cool reply to the pilot, the young man hastily drew an arm of the apparent boy, forgetful of her disguise, through his own, and led her forward. “Come, Katherine,” he said, “the time urges to be prompt.” “What pressing necessity is there for immediate departure?” she inquired, checking his movements by withdrawing herself from his side. “You heard the ominous prognostic of my cockswain on the weather, and I am forced to add my own testimony to his opinion. 'Tis a crazy night that threatens us, though I cannot repent of coming into the bay, since it has led to this interview.”