Calling the gunner, he desired him to fire a gun, as agreed upon when either vessel should tack. This was done, and all listened, thinking it would be returned, but, finding no response, he ordered the schooner about. “I do not think the Babet has outsailed us in this light wind,” observed our hero to an old and experienced man-of-war’s man, who acted as his first mate. “No, sir; under-rigged as the corvette is, I should say this craft would outsail her, and beat her on a wind. Perhaps the Captain tacked and forgot to fire the gun.” “I do not think that,” returned our hero. “However, we will let her stand on this board;” and, having set the watch, and taking all necessary precautions, he retired to eat his dinner and have a look at what the cabin contained. CHAPTER XII. The main cabin of the Bon-Citoyen was, though not very large, extremely comfortable, and bore a very war-like aspect, the panels and sides all being covered with various small arms arranged in fanciful devices. Young as he was, and a midshipman, Thornton could not help reflecting on the uncertainty of life, when he recollected that a few hours back the cabin had been tenanted by Captain Victor Chabot, in full life and vigour, and now, thought our hero, he lies at the bottom of that vast expanse of ocean that entombs so many thousands. Too young to be sad, or reflect long on serious things, the young commander, shaking off the feeling of depression that had for a moment come over him, returned upon deck. The fog was still thick, but the wind was rapidly increasing, and so was the sea. Before midnight they were under a double-reefed topsail, and double-reefed mainsail and fore-sail; the schooner was then put about, with her head to the nor’-nor’-east. Our hero was too anxious to retire to rest; he felt too great a responsibility rested upon him, particularly in the then state of the weather, and the ticklish situation in which they were placed. He also felt uneasy at not being answered by the Babet when he had fired the gun at sunset; so that altogether he was extremely anxious for daylight. The fog, as the wind increased, was gradually dispersing, and towards morning the mist over the sea had totally disappeared. The gale and sea went on increasing, so that when the day made, all hands on board anxiously scanned the horizon around. As the light increased, land was at once seen on the starboard bow, and not more than two leagues distant; but a mist hung over the coast, rendering it obscure. “I am certain the land we see ahead is the West Penmarks, Mr. Lochart,” said our hero to the first mate; “and it is very strange I cannot make out the Babet anywhere, or the lugger. I see a brig standing under close-reefed topsails to the sou’-west, and three or four other craft under easy canvas running in for the land.”