Fortunately the breeze held in front of us, the belt of unruffled water receding still farther as we progressed, and the _Happy Adventure_ showed that her reputation for sailing was no idle one. The frigate, too, finding that we were out of range had ceased firing, but had set her royals. Staggering under her press of sail, she evidently found that the wind was too much for her, and shortly afterwards we could see the royals being clewed up. Then a blinding rain set in, almost blotting out the outlines of our pursuer, whereat the master whistled blithely. "Edge her off a bit," he ordered, "or we'll be hard and fast aground." And, to my surprise, the smack was steered, not as I thought towards the open sea, but nearer the shore. Though I dare not question this fiery-tempered son of Devon, he doubtless saw the look of inquiry on my face. "'Tis the Shingles, young sir," he explained. "A vast bank just below the surface. If yon vessel holds on her course she'll run herself aground." The frigate did not attempt to sheer off, and, as the master had predicted, she struck hard, her fore-topmast going by the board. "That's settled her for the nonce," remarked the master. "But now for the guns of Hurst Castle." Once more we were to be shown the art of "bluffing." Trusting to his proverbial luck, the master steered direct for the fortress, instead of heading away for the more distant shore of the Isle of Wight. Hurst is not a large castle; it is merely a stone fort, heavily mounted with guns, and occupies the extremity of a low spit of shingle. Between it and the island the tide was surging in a manner the like of which I had never seen before, Tumbling and rolling in a confused mass of broken water, the sea was running as fast as a horse can trot--at least, that is what it appeared to me--but close to the castle a strong eddy was making in an opposite direction to the main flood. Into this eddy the _Happy Adventure_ was steered. The frigate was now nearly lost in the rain cloud, though we could see that she was still fast aground. Against the counter-current the smack only just held her own, and, edging so close to the fortress that we could almost have jumped on to the beach, she came within easy hailing distance. "What ship is that?" shouted an officer, whose appearance could not be taken for anything else than a rebel. He was supported by a file of musketeers, while we could see some gunners cluster round a piece of ordnance, that grinned at us through a wide embrasure. "The _Happy Adventure_, of Poole. We are chased by the malignants. Can we take shelter in Keyhaven?" "What is the name of the ship?" "I know not; she is a frigate, and is aground on the Shingles." "Carry on, and bring up in the haven." "Very good, sir."