The brig, by this time, had neared the harbour considerably with the wind, from the north-north-west, blowing right upon her quarter. The young officer could not help a feeling of pride and satisfaction as he fondly gazed upon his little vessel scudding before the breeze, while her taut masts and long, slight yards, literally covered with canvass, seemed to bend beneath their load. There is a sympathy which the sailor feels for his ship, which it is difficult to describe. It is not that love which a parent feels for his child—nor yet the love of a child to its parent; it is not that which a brother feels for his sister. No; it is something stronger than this: it is the affection which an ardent lover feels for his mistress—it is a love _riveted_ by the strongest links of attachment; in it he has weathered many a tough gale; in it are contained his jovial shipmates, bound together by mutual hardships and perils. The prospect which at this moment presented itself to the officer’s view was beautiful in the extreme. To the south, beyond the long, flat sands of Holy Island, were seen the old castle and abbey of Lindisfern, hallowed by so many sacred associations; beyond them, were seen rising, in the distance, the castles of Bamburgh and Dunstanburg; to the west, were the fields yellow with corn ready for the sickle; to the north, was the bold promontory of St Abb’s, the finest headland in Europe, jutting into the sea; to the east, was the German Ocean, stretching away till the view was bounded by the clouds in the distant horizon, which seemed level with the sea; and, what to the officer was dearer than all these, there was his little vessel, the pride of his heart, skimming, like a thing of life, over the blue waters. Before proceeding farther with our present story, it may not be amiss, first, to give the reader some insight into the history of the hero of our tale.