“Upon my soul and honour,” replied the fisherman, grasping his proffered hand.

The matter now seemed settled,—­no farther words passed between the master of the boat and his passenger; but the seaman gave a rapid glance to the sky, to the long spit of land called the Battery Point, and to the southward, whence the wind was blowing so sharply.

“We can do it,” he muttered to himself, “we can do it;” and he then gave immediate orders for changing the boat’s course, and putting out all sail.  His companions seemed as much surprised by his change of purpose, as he had been with the alteration of his passenger’s determination.  His orders were nevertheless obeyed promptly, the head of the boat was turned away from the wind, the canvas caught the gale, and away she went like lightning, heeling till the little yard almost touched the water.  Her course, however, was not bent back exactly to the same spot from which she started, and it now became evident that it was the fisherman’s intention to round the Battery Point.

Lennard Sherbrooke was not at all aware of the dangerous reef that lay so near their course; but it soon became evident to him that there was some great peril, which required much skill and care to avoid; and, as night fell, the anxiety of the seamen evidently became greater.  The wind by this time was blowing quite a hurricane, and the rushing roaring sound of the gale and the ocean was quite deafening.  But about half an hour after sunset that peculiar angry roar, which is only heard in the neighbourhood of breakers, was distinguished to leeward; and looking in that direction, Sherbrooke perceived one long white line of foam and surf, rising like an island in the midst of dark and struggling waters.

Not a word was said:  it seemed as if scarcely a breath was drawn.  In a few minutes the sound of the breakers became less distinct; a slight motion was perceivable in the arm of the man who held the tiller, and in about ten minutes the effect of the neighbouring headlands was found in smoother water and a lighter gale, as the boat glided calmly and steadily on, into a small bay, not many hundred miles from Baltimore.  The rest of their voyage, till they reached the shore again, was safe and easy:  the master of the boat and his men seemed to know every creek, cove, and inlet, as well as their own dwelling places; and, directing their coarse to a little but deep stream, they ran in between two other boats, and were soon safely moored.

The boy, by Sherbrooke’s direction, had lain himself down in the bottom of the boat, wrapped up in a large cloak; and there, with the happy privilege of childhood, he had fallen sound asleep, nor woke till danger and anxiety were passed, and the little vessel safe at the shore.  Accommodation was easily found in a neighbouring village, and, on the following day, one, and only one, of the boat’s crew went over to the spot from which they had set out on the