They held a course up the channel all night; the moon rode grandly in the starlit heavens, and bathed the chopping waters with radiance. But toward morning her glory waned, and the darkness that ensued was of that complete pall-like sort that usually precedes dawn. Then a fog settled slowly down--the wet, clinging mist that is common in those waters, and they sailed on through it, chilled and silent. Deeper and thicker it grew as the moments went by; they had sighted no vessel since they had run out; but now, with the suddenness of magic, the gleaming bow lights of a large ship appeared ahead like the angry eyes of some sea monster glaring upon them. Ethan threw the wheel down hard; the nose of the schooner swung about in answer and she plunged across the bow of the ship like a ghost. A startled cry came from the larger vessel’s deck, then followed a hubbub of sounds; and at last a voice hailed them. “Ahoy! What vessel is that?” The creaking of the yards of the ship showed that she was about to investigate the schooner; but at the hail, Ethan and Shamus O’Moore looked at one another blankly. “I never thought to ask the name of this craft,” said the boy. “Nor I,” answered the Irishman, “but we’ll know in a minute, faith.” “Ahoy,” came from the ship, which had run off some little distance before her yards could be dressed to meet the change of course. She was now looming up huge and grim through the mists of the early morning. “What ship is that?” “Answer,” Longsword said to one of the British seamen. The man hesitated sullenly: but the fierce, crushing grip that the dragoon suddenly put upon his shoulder caused him to call out at the top of his voice: “His Majesty’s schooner, Condor.” The ship was now very close at hand, indeed the two vessels were within easy pistol shot of each other. “This is the frigate, Drake,” came the voice from the ship deck. “Who’s your commander?” “Captain Spencer.” “Have you run across any other vessel since dark?” “No,” answered the sailor at Longsword’s prompting. “We are looking for the pirate, Paul Jones; he’s reported to be in these waters. Look out for him.” There was then a sharp altercation between the speaker and another person who appeared to have just come upon deck. After a moment the new voice cried harshly: “Condor, ahoy!” “Ahoy!” answered Ethan. “Heave to; I’m coming aboard of you.” “We can’t have him do that,” said the boy to Longsword. “The moment he set foot on this deck, the men would tell him everything,” agreed the Irish soldier. “Clap on more sail,” said Ethan; “we’ll run for it.” The men, at Longsword’s stern command, set the foresail and a couple of topsails; under the increased pressure, the Condor drew away, and the Drake faded to a blur and at last the mist swallowed her up all altogether. “Put out all the lights,” called Ethan. “We can give her the slip in this fog.”