but my own mind remained far too active to enable me to lose consciousness.  At last, despairing of slumber, and perchance urged by some indistinct premonition of danger, I sat up once more and gazed about.  The three men were lying not far apart, close in to the galley wall, merely dark, shapeless shadows, barely to be distinguished in the gloom.  With no longer any fear of disturbing them, I arose to my feet, and stepping carefully past their recumbent forms, moved silently aft toward the more open space near the wheel.  I had been standing there hardly a minute, staring blankly out into the misty dimness of the Bay, when my startled eyes caught glimpse of a speck of white emerging from the black shadows—­the spectral glimmer of a small sail.  I was scarcely convinced I had seen it, yet as swiftly crouched lower, hiding myself behind the protection of the rail, instantly alert to learn the meaning of this strange apparition.  An instant told me this was no deceit.  The strange craft swept past, so far out that those on board no doubt believed themselves beyond sight from the shore, heading apparently for a point of land, which I vaguely remembered as jutting out to the northward.  Even my eyes, accustomed to the darkness, and strained to the utmost, could detect scarcely more than the faintest shadow gliding silently by, yet sufficient to recognize the outlines of a small keel boat, propelled by a single lug sail, and even imagined I could discern the stooped figure of a man at the helm.

CHAPTER VII

THE LIEUTENANT UNMASKED

I had in truth hardly more than grasped the reality of the boat’s presence—­it seemed so spectral a thing amid the mists of the night—­when it had vanished utterly once more behind the curtain of darkness.  There was no sound to convince me my eyes had not deceived; that I had actually perceived a boat, flying before the wind, under complete control, and headed to the northward.  No echo of a voice came across the water, no slight flap of sail, no distant creak of pulley, or groaning of rope—­merely that fleeting vision, seemingly a phantom of imagination, a vision born from sea and cloud.  Yet I knew I was not deceived.  Where the craft could be bound; for what secret purpose it was afloat; who were aboard, were but so many unanswerable questions arising in my mind.  I stared vainly into the darkness, puzzled and uncertain, impressed alone by the one controlling thought, that some mysterious object, some hidden purpose alone could account for that swift, silent passage.  Where could they have come from, unless from that strange Dutch bark riding at anchor off the point below?  The passing craft had impressed me as a ship’s boat, and no craft of fishermen; and if it really came from the Namur of Rotterdam, had it been sent in answer to some signal by Sanchez?  I could think of nothing else.  They must have chosen this late hour purposely; they had doubtless endeavored to slip past us unobserved, seeking some more desolate spot on the coast where they might land unseen.  Possibly, deceived by the night, the helmsman had approached closer to the wharf than he had intended; yet, nevertheless, if he held to his present course, he must surely touch shore not more than five hundred yards distant.  In all probability that was his purpose.