pping astern
at every pitch we took.

But the excitement of all this was as nothing to the echo in my ears of
that voice in the dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE WRECK OF THE "KESTREL."

The crew of the _Kestrel_ consisted of less than fifty men, most of them
Irishmen. While the work of setting sails and making all snug lasted I
had little chance of looking about me, but the impression I formed was
that the schooner was not at all worthy of the praise her tipsy captain
had bestowed upon her. She was an old craft, with a labouring way of
sailing that compared very unfavourably with the _Cigale_ or the
_Arrow_. Her guns, about a dozen in all, were of an antiquated type,
and badly mounted, and her timbers were old and faulty. As long as we
had a sharp east wind astern we had not much to concern us, but I had my
misgivings how she would behave in dirty weather with a lee-shore on her
quarter.

That, however, concerned me less just then than my impatience to get a
glimpse of the face of the lieutenant. I volunteered for an extra watch
for this purpose, and longed for some excuse to take me aft.

Sure enough it came. The same voice rang out again through the
darkness:--

"Hand there! come and set the stern light."

"Ay, ay, sir," cried I, hurrying to the place.

For the first hour or so after slipping our moorings off Havre the
_Kestrel_ had remained in perfect darkness. But now that we were beyond
sight of the lights ashore there was no occasion for so dangerous a
precaution. I unlashed the lantern and took it down to the galley for a
light, and then returned with it to the helm.

As I did so I could not help turning it full on the face of the man at
the tiller.

Sure enough it was Tim, grown into a man, with down on his chin, and the
weather wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Every inch a sailor and a
gentleman he looked as he stood there in his blue flannel suit and
peaked cap; the same easy-going, gusty, reckless Tim I had fought with
many a time on Fanad cliffs, loving him more for every blow I gave him.
When I thought I had lost him, it seemed as if I had lost a part of
myself. Now I had found him, I had found myself.

"Look alive, my lad," said he.

Without a word I fixed the light in its place. I had never, I think,
felt so shy and at a loss in my life.

At last I could stand it no longer.

"Tim, old man, is that really you?"

He staggered at the sound of my voice, just as I had sta