is his
own, and after he has given it away to the crown; and therefore I hope my
present freedom will not be long remembered."

"I have met men of your humor before, my friend, and I have not now to
learn, that a thorough man-of-war's man is as impudent on shore, as he is
obedient afloat.--Is that a sail, in the offing, or is it the wing of a
sea-fowl, glittering in the sun?"

"It may be either," observed the audacious mariner, turning his eye
leisurely towards the open ocean, "for we have a wide look-out from this
windy bluff. Here are gulls sporting above the waves, that turn their
feathers towards the light."

"Look more seaward. That spot of shining white should be the canvas of
some craft, hovering in the offing!"

"Nothing more probable, in so light a breeze Your coasters are in and out,
like water-rats on a wharf, at any hour of the twenty-four--and yet to me
it seems the comb of a breaking sea."

"'Tis snow-white duck; such as your swift rover wears on his loftier
spars!"

"A duck that is flown," returned the stranger drily, "for it is no longer
to be seen. These fly-aways, Captain Ludlow, give us seamen many sleepless
nights and idle chases. I was once running down the coast of Italy,
between the island of Corsica and the main, when one of these delusions
beset the crew, in a manner that hath taught me to put little faith in
eyes, unless backed by a clear horizon and a cool head."

"I'll hear the circumstance," said Ludlow, withdrawing his gaze from the
distant ocean, like one who was satisfied his senses had been deceived.
"What of this marvel of the Italian seas?"

"A marvel truly, as your Honor will confess, when I read you the affair,
much in the words I had it logged, for the knowledge of all concerned. It
was the last hour of the second dog-watch, on Easter-Sunday, with the wind
here at south-east, easterly. A light air filled the upper canvas, and
just gave us command of the ship. The mountains of Corsica, with Monte
Christo and Elba, had all been sunk some hours, and we were on the yards,
keeping a look-out for a land-fall on the Roman coast. A low, thick bank
of drifting fog lay along the sea, in-shore of us, which all believed to
be the sweat of the land, and thought no more of; though none wished to
enter it, for that is a coast where foul airs rise, and through which the
gulls and land-birds refuse to fly. Well, here we lay, the mainsail in the
brails, the top-sails beating the mast-heads,