One stirring day was that in which we sighted Hawaii. It blew fair, but very strong; we carried jib, foresail, and mainsail, all single-reefed, and she carried her lee rail under water and flew. The swell, the heaviest I have ever been out in--I tried in vain to estimate the height, _at least_ fifteen feet--came tearing after us about a point and a half off the wind. We had the best hand--old Louis--at the wheel; and, really, he did nobly, and had noble luck, for it never caught us once. At times it seemed we must have it; old Louis would look over his shoulder with the queerest look and dive down his neck into his shoulders; and then it missed us somehow, and only sprays came over our quarter, turning the little outside lane of deck into a mill race as deep as to the cockpit coamings. I never remember anything more delightful and exciting. Pretty soon after we were lying absolutely becalmed under the lee of Hawaii, of which we had been warned; and the captain never confessed he had done it on purpose, but when accused, he smiled. Really, I suppose he did quite right, for we stood committed to a dangerous race, and to bring her to the wind would have been rather a heart-sickening manoeuvre. R. L. S. TO MARCEL SCHWOB At Honolulu, Stevenson found awaiting him, among the accumulations of the mail-bag, two letters of friendly homage--the first, I think, he had received from any foreign _confrere_--addressed to him by the distinguished young French scholar and man of letters, M. Marcel Schwob, since deceased. _Honolulu, Sandwich Islands, February 8th, 1889._ DEAR SIR,--I thank you--from the midst of such a flurry as you can imagine, with seven months' accumulated correspondence on my table--for your two friendly and clever letters. Pray write me again. I shall be home in May or June, and not improbably shall come to Paris in the summer. Then we can talk; or in the interval I may be able to write, which is to-day out of the question. Pray take a word from a man of crushing occupations, and count it as a volume. Your little _conte_ is delightful. Ah yes, you are right, I love the eighteenth century; and so do you, and have not listened to its voice in vain.--The Hunted One, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO CHARLES BAXTER _Honolulu, 8th March 1889._