For an instant the captain did not reply. He seemed to measure carefully the rate of the other vessel’s speed against that of his own. The result apparently satisfied him, for he turned again with a smile. “I’ve got half a mind to try a few passes with him,” he said, “and I would do it if it were not for the old adage about discretion. For an Irishman, sure I have a reputation for discreetness that must not be broken. And so,” he continued, “we’ll let well enough alone.” It was evident to every one on board the Revenge that their vessel sailed faster and closer on the wind than did the brig. And though both were heading toward the white cliffs, it became apparent that if the wind held, the Revenge would not only cross the brig’s bows at a distance that was practically out of range of her broadside guns, but would also weather the point that was the southernmost cape on the English coast--Land’s End. By nightfall, if all went well, she should be past the entrance to the Irish Channel and in her new cruising grounds. But an unlooked-for occurrence put an end to all such hopes. Suddenly appearing around the point of land, carrying the wind from an entirely new direction, came a large three-masted vessel. At once the brig, that, although to leeward, was the nearer, began to set a little row of signal flags, and, as if noticing the shift of the wind, she came about, apparently abandoning the attempt to head off the Revenge. Instantly Conyngham divined her purpose, and came about also as quickly as he could. The breeze, which had been from the eastward, was rapidly dying down. The big stranger, carrying the new wind, grew larger and larger. Through the glass Conyngham could make out three rows of ports, and the billowing canvas rising above the dark hull looked like a cloud hanging low in the sky. It was almost dead calm, and the Revenge swung lazily up and down, with her steering sails dipping uselessly in the water, while the brig, that had now caught the wind, bore down nearer and nearer. The men looked back at the quarter-deck with frightened, white faces. All the good fortune that had so far followed them in the cruise had apparently deserted them. They saw visions of their prize-money disappearing, and many of the knowing ones could imagine the crowded harbor of Portsmouth, with the big seventy-four lying at anchor, while black, faintly struggling objects depended from her yard-arms. The first mate and Conyngham had not exchanged a word, when suddenly the former, lifting his hand, broke the silence. “She’s coming, captain; by tar, she’s coming!” he cried.