"No, sir," responded Captain Acton, with his eye at his glass. "Line of battle-ships, and three smaller vessels," for by this time the distant fleet by combination of its own and the passage of the _Aurora_ through the water had lifted above the horizon to the topsails of the hindmost, the courses of the van swelling and falling plain in the lenses as the structures bowed upon the large, wide, steel-coloured swell tinctured by the day-spring. "I agree with you, Acton: a fleet of men-of-war," said the Admiral. "British or French?" enquired Captain Acton, letting his glass sink whilst he looked at his companions. "Before we sailed the news had got about that Villeneuve meant to go for the West Indies. It may be his ships returning." He pointed his glass again, and counted: "Eleven sail of the line and three frigates." "Villeneuve's force was greater, sir," said the Admiral. "It was reckoned at eighteen or twenty line-of-battle ships." "All the same we must mind our eye," said Captain Acton. "Shorten sail, Captain Weaver! But furl nothing! And stand by to get away close hauled on the larboard tack before we're within gunshot." Lucy came out of the deck-house. A long night's rest had restored much of the bloom to her beauty. She wanted something of the freshness, but she lacked nothing of the sweetness and the loveliness with which she fascinated the gaze at home. She ran to her father and kissed him, shook hands with the Admiral, and bowed to Captain Weaver most cordially. "What a lot of ships!" she cried. The crew were busy with letting go halliards and brailing in and clewing up, and the _Aurora_ floated forward, slowly swaying her mast-heads with languor and dignity as the heave of the sea took her and rocked her. The ships rose until every hull was visible. Eleven line-of-battle ships, as Captain Acton said, and three frigates. They flew no colours: nothing in that way could be seen save the little patch against the flecked sky that denoted the flag-ship. "If they are not British, sir," said the Admiral, after a prolonged squint through the glass, "I'll swallow my cocked hat when I get ashore." "I could swear to one of them as the _Superb_," said Captain Acton, who had also taken a prolonged view of the ships through his glass. "She is a slow sailer. I know that she is rotten to the core for want of a dockyard. If I am not greatly mistaken, her stun-sail booms are lashed to the yards, and she is the only one with stun-sails set, which means that her rotting keel marks the pace for the rest. Hoist our colours! We'll chance it." Captain Weaver sped aft, and in a few moments the English Ensign soared to the mizzen-gaff end and streamed out fair to the sight of the approaching fleet. "British, as I guessed," cried the Admiral.