Ludlow looked at the cloud above the mouth of the Raritan, and his lip curled in a haughty smile.

“Let the wind hold here, at east,” he said, “and we shall act our pleasure, with both lockers and cabins.”

“Hist! the worthy Master Tiller may overhear this threat—­and, after all, I do not know whether prudence does not tell us, to let the brigantine depart.”

“Mr. Alderman Van Beverout,” rejoined the Captain, whose cheek had reddened to a glow, “my duty must not be gauged by your affection for your niece.  Though content that Alida Barberie should quit the country, like an article of vulgar commerce, the commander of this vessel must get a passport of Her Majesty’s cruiser, ere she again enter the high sea.”

“Wilt say as much to the sea-green lady?” asked the mariner of the shawl, suddenly appearing at his elbow.

The question was so unexpected and so strange, that it caused an involuntary start; but, recovering his recollection on the instant, the young sailor haughtily replied—­

“Or to any other monster thou canst conjure!”

“We will take you at the word.  There is no more certain method of knowing the past or the future, the quarter of the heavens from which the winds are to come, or the season of the hurricanes, than by putting a question to our mistress.  She who knows so much of hidden matters, may tell us what you wish to know.  We will have her called, by the usual summons.”

Thus saving, the mariner of the shawl gravely quitted his guests, and descended into the inferior cabins of the vessel.  It was but a moment, before there arose sounds from some secret though not distant quarter of the brigantine, that caused, in some measure, both surprise and pleasure to Ludlow and the Patroon.  Their companion had his motives for being insensible to either of these emotions.

After a short and rapid symphony, a wind-instrument took up a wild strain, while a human voice was again heard chanting to the music, words which were so much involved by the composition of the air, as to render it impossible to trace more than that their burthen was a sort of mysterious incantation of some ocean deity.

“Squeaking and flutes!” grumbled Myndert, ere the last sounds were fairly ended.  “This is downright heathenish; and a plain-dealing man, who does business above-board, has good reason to wish himself honestly at church.  What have we to do with land-witches, or water-witches, or any other witchcraft, that we stay in the brigantine, now it is known that my niece is not to be found aboard her; and, moreover, even admitting that we were disposed to traffic, the craft has nothing in her that a man of Manhattan should want.  The deepest bog of thy manor, Patroon, is safer ground to tread on, than the deck of a vessel that has got a reputation like that of this craft.”