was fresh, the tops of the seas
sparkled in the rays of the rising sun, when the lookout from aloft
shouted, "A sail on the lee bow!"

"What is she?" asked Adair, who was officer of the watch.

"A brig, sir," was the answer.

"Is she like the _Supplejack_?" he inquired.

"Can't say, sir. She is anyhow running to the westward, and the
_Supplejack_ would be steering to the south."

"You are right. Call the commander," said Adair to Desmond. The
youngster had rejoined the ship at Georgetown. He himself then went
aloft with his glass, to have a look at the stranger. By the time he
came down Murray was on deck.

"She is certainly not the _Supplejack_, and, as she is running in for
some Brazilian port far to the northward of Rio, she may possibly be a
slaver."

"We will overhaul her, at all events," said Murray, and the corvette,
bearing up in chase, made all sail she could set.

The stranger did not at first discover that she was pursued, and by the
time that she did so the corvette had gained considerably on her. She
was then seen to be a large brigantine, and by her square yards and
white canvas, lighted up by the rays of the sun, Murray was more than
ever convinced that she was a slaver.

The chase had set all the sail she could carry, and still kept well
ahead of the corvette. The weather, as the day advanced, gave signs of
changing, dark clouds gathered in the sky, and squalls, not very strong
at first, but sufficient to make the commander look with anxious eyes at
his spars, swept across the ocean--the dark clouds as they rushed along
changing the hitherto blue, laughing waves to a leaden hue. Still the
corvette persevered. The crew were at their stations, ready to shorten
sail the moment it became absolutely necessary. The eagerness of the
chase to escape made it still more probable that she was a slaver. She
was dead before the wind, carrying topgallant-sails and royals, and
studding-sails on either side. A dark cloud passing over her threw her
into shade; on it went, and once more the bright rays of the sun falling
on her canvas brought her more clearly into view; another squall swept
by, making the corvette's studding-sail-booms crack and bend as if they
were about to break away from the braces.

"Hold on, good sticks!" cried Murray, apostrophising them, "the toughest
spars will win the day."

The crew cast their eyes aloft, fully expecting to see them carried
away, but they held on, and