ar again. The Captain inquired if anything
had been seen of the pirate which had attempted to surprise us with her
boats; but the brig of war had returned without hearing anything of her.
We remained but a day at the Rock. We took on board there the crew of
a ship which had foundered at sea, and had been brought in by a Greek
brig which had picked them up, and, for a wonder, had not murdered them.
However, as they were nearly naked, and had promised the Greeks a
reward if they arrived in safety, more was to be got by keeping them
alive than by killing them. We were thus very strongly manned.

Foul winds and a heavy gale made us stand a good way to the westward on
our passage home, after getting clear of the Gut. Soon after sunrise
one morning a sail was reported away to windward, running down towards
us, the wind being about on her quarter. As she approached with all
sail set, she appeared to be sailing very wildly; that is to say,
instead of keeping a steady, straight course, her head went now on one
side, now on the other, as if a drunken man was at the helm. The
captain and mates were looking at her through their glasses.

"She looks like an English craft, by the cut of her canvas," observed
Mr Gale.

"I can make out the ensign at her peak, and there's no doubt she is
English," answered the captain. "There is something wrong aboard her,
however, depend on that. I suspect that they have had a fever among
them, or the plague, and that all her people are sick, and they have not
strength to shorten sail."

"Perhaps there is a mutiny aboard, or the people are all quarrelling
among each other," observed Mr Gale. "I have known of such things:
when the master and officers have ill-treated the men, the crew have
risen against them, and either hove them overboard or confined them
below, and carried the ship into an enemy's port."

I was surprised at the expression of the captain's countenance while the
mate was speaking. The words seemed to remind him, I thought, of some
occurrence of his youth.

"Depend on it, Gale, no good ever came of such a deed," he remarked.
"Either the actors in such work have gone on all their lives afraid of
detection, or have very speedily paid the penalty of it. Unless a man
has become a hardened wretch, the recollection of such an act will throw
a gloom over the whole of his after-life, and blight all his earthly
prospects."

"Not if he feels that he is forgiven, surely, sir," sa