In the misty distance a great black mass loomed vague and indistinct on the lee side of the vessel, apparently about seven miles off, though the magnifying vapor seemed to bring it nearer. “I am not sure,” replied Crispin, straining his eyes; “we are in the middle of a number of islets.” “The deuce! isn’t that rather dangerous?” “It would be to any one who did not know these waters; but Martin has been here with me often before, and knows every rock in the vicinity. Besides, we are comparatively safe, as the engines are of large horse-power compared with the size of the boat.” Martin was the captain of the yacht, and at present was personally attending to the wheel, with an anxious expression on his weather-beaten face, for it was no light task to steer the boat safely through these clusters of islands, especially when the magnifying properties of the mist cause them to appear in dangerous proximity to the ship, thus deceiving the eye into thinking she was entangled among hidden reefs. Luckily Captain Martin had a clear head, and, being a splendid seaman, knew the capabilities of The Eunice thoroughly; so Crispin felt quite content to leave affairs in his hands, so long as he was at the helm. “Kamila!” shouted Caliphronas, alluding to the misty island. “No,” shouted back Crispin; “Kamila too far off.” “Kamila!” cried the Greek for the second time, whereupon Crispin was much impressed with his insistence. “Caliphronas knows these seas thoroughly,” he said to Maurice quietly; “he has sailed all over them with his rascal friend; so if this is Kamila, we must be nearer Melnos than I thought.” “Had you not better see Martin?” suggested Maurice, shaking himself like a huge water-dog, as a shower of spray flew over him. Crispin nodded an assent, and began to struggle towards the wheel, where Martin was standing. It was rather difficult, owing to the slipperiness of the wet deck and the tossing of the yacht, which one moment would be poised on the crest of a wave, and the next ingulfed in a foam-streaked valley of green water, which threatened to swamp her. However, by holding on to anything he could seize, Crispin managed to get close to the captain, who, in his efforts to keep the ship’s head right, was straining every muscle to hold the wheel, which was almost torn out of his grasp in a retrograde direction, every time a wave smashed against her helm. “Kamila!” screamed Crispin in Martin’s ear, as he pointed to the dim mass. Martin shook his head doubtfully. “Too far south’ard. We’re nigher Anapli, I reckon.” “And Melnos?” “Straight ahead. Who says ’tis Kamila?” “Count Caliphronas!” “Hum! he knows these parts too. I’ll go and have another look at the chart.” “If it’s Kamila, Melnos is just round the shoulder.” “Can’t believe we’ve got so far out of the course. Why, if”—