The men were hurriedly piped to this duty while their young commander took his station on the poop, now anxiously examining the courses of the tides and the positions of the eddies, and now turning his eyes towards the brigantine, whose upper spars and white sails were to be seen, at the distance of two hundred fathoms, glancing past the trees of the island. But miles and minutes seemed like rods and moments, in that swift current. Trysail had just reported the anchors ready, when the ship swept up abreast of the cove, where vessels often seek an anchorage, to await favorable moments for entering the Gate. Ludlow saw, at a glance, that the place was entirely empty. For an instant he yielded to the heavy responsibility—a responsibility before which a seaman sooner shrinks than before any other—that of charging himself with the duty of the pilot; and he thought of running into the anchorage for shelter. But another glimpse at the spars of the brigantine caused him to waver. “We are near the Gate, sir!” cried Trysail, in a voice that was full of warning. “Yon daring mariner stands on!” “The rogue sails his vessel without the Queen’s permission, Captain Ludlow. They tell me, this is a passage that has been well named!” “I have been through it, and will vouch for its character—he shows no signs of anchoring!” “If the woman who points his course can carry him through safely, she deserves her title. We are passing, the Cove, Captain Ludlow!” “We are past it!” returned Ludlow, breathing heavily. “Let there be no whisper in the ship—pilot or no pilot, we now sink or swim!”