So passed the time. And when you take into consideration the solemn fact that all this time they were drifting, that the sea was smooth, that there wasn’t a breath of wind, that there was no prospect of getting home, or anywhere else, for that matter,--you will come to the conclusion that these boys were jolly under creditable circumstances. And you will be right in that conclusion; for it was in the very face of calms, strong tides, empty larders, wanderings at sea, famine, and privations of all kinds, that these boys stood up and sang their song. In this sense it became not a mere song of jollity or of idle sport. It was more. It was the song of the unconquered soul. It was a defiance hurled full in the face of Fortune. The evening passed. The shades of night came down. It was dark, and it grew darker. Until late, the sounds of song, of laughter, and of merriment, came forth and resounded through the night. At length all was still. All on board had descended to their couches, and were wrapped in profound slumber. The boy who awaked first in the morning gave such a shout that all the others were roused at once. What was it? What! An instant told them all. Down through the hatchway there came a blast of wind strong and cool, and full of sea salt. Above, they could see the sail distended to its utmost, while higher up the clouds were scudding across the sky. Below, the vessel was lying far over, as it yielded to the wind; and her pitching and tossing, together with the dash of waves against her bows, told all that she was moving swiftly through the water. They hurried up to the deck. Far around them was the blue sea, now tossing into white-capped waves. A fresh, strong wind was blowing over the water, and it was fair. On the right rose Blomidon from out the foam that gathered at its base; on the left the water extended till it was lost in the distance amid the haze that hung over the low-lying shore. Behind them lay the Five Islands, and all that water over which they had so long been drifting. The vessel was heading straight to Grand Pré, and was tearing her way through the water as she had never done before within the experience of any of her present passengers. Joy reigned supreme. Loud cheers and cries of delight burst forth. “Why, captain,” said Bart, “I. began to think that the Antelope couldn’t sail at all.” “Can’t she, though? O, she isn’t a bad sailor when she’s got a wind dead fair like this.” “When’ll we get to Grand Pré?” “Wal, that’s difficult to say,” said the captain, thoughtfully. “Why, you don’t mean to say that there is any danger of the wind stopping now, or changing?” “O, no; there’s no danger of that.” “Well, what is there?” “Why, we can’t get to the wharf.” “Why not?” “It’ll be low tide when we get there.” “Low tide!” repeated Bart, in consternation; “and how far will we be from the wharf?” “O, miles; and that isn’t the worst of it. You’ll have the Cornwallis River between you and Grand Pré.”