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THE SPANIARD.
The Swallow, having passed through a gale in the Bay of Biscay--a gale which she weathered like the surprisingly steady old tub she was--rounded Cape Finisterre and so emerged from tempest into peace, from leaden skies and mountainous seas into a sunny azure calm.

It was like a sudden transition from winter into spring, and she ran along now, close hauled to the soft easterly breeze, with a gentle list to port.
It had never been Master Leigh's intent to have got so far as this without coming to an understanding with his prisoner.

But the wind had been stronger than his intentions, and he had been compelled to run before it and to head to southward until its fury should abate.

Thus it fell out--and all marvellously to Master Lionel's advantage, as you shall see--that the skipper was forced to wait until they stood along the coast of Portugal--but well out to sea, for the coast of Portugal was none too healthy just then to English seamen--before commanding Sir Oliver to be haled into his presence.
In the cramped quarters of the cabin in the poop of the little vessel sat her captain at a greasy table, over which a lamp was swinging faintly to the gentle heave of the ship.