face when those words were pronounced was Launcelot Linzie. He--and he
alone--saw the Levant trader's swarthy complexion fade slowly to a
livid ashen gray; his eyes the while fixing themselves on Sir Joseph
Graybrooke with a furtive glare in them like the glare in the eyes of a
wild beast. Apparently conscious that Launce was looking at him--though
he never turned his head Launce's way--he laid his elbow on the table,
lifted his arm, and so rested his face on his hand, while the story went
on, as to screen it effectually from the young surgeon's view.

"The man was brought on board," proceeded Sir Joseph, "sure enough, with
a hen-coop--on which he had been found floating. The poor wretch was
blue with terror and exposure in the water; he fainted when we lifted
him on deck. When he came to himself he told us a horrible story. He was
a sick and destitute foreign seaman, and he had hidden himself in the
hold of an English vessel (bound to a port in his native country) which
had sailed from Liverpool that morning. He had been discovered, and
brought before the captain. The captain, a monster in human form, if
ever there was one yet--"

Before the next word of the sentence could pass Sir Joseph's lips,
Turlington startled the little party in the cabin by springing suddenly
to his feet.

"The breeze!" he cried; "the breeze at last!"

As he spoke, he wheeled round to the cabin door so as to turn his back
on his guests, and hailed the deck.

"Which way is the wind?"