CHAPTER ELEVEN.
HOW THE MISERICORDE CHANGED HER CREW.
We were, I reckon, somewhere off the Yorkshire coast; for we had been sailing a week, for the most part against foul winds.

To-night, as I said, the light breeze had backed to the south and was sending us forward quietly at some six or seven knots an hour.

All seemed to promise a speedy end to our voyage; and yet, as I stood there, drinking in the beauty of the evening, and rejoicing in my recovered strength, I would as soon we had been bound on a voyage ten times as long.
I was standing idly near the foremast.

On the high poop behind sat the maiden, singing beside her old nurse, who, like me, was enjoying the air for the first time to-night.

Ludar lolled near me, on a coil of rope, watching the sun dip as he listened to the singing, and betwixt whiles unravelling the tangles of a fishing line.