Her light sails were fully distended, though the
breeze was far from fresh; and as she rose and fell on the long
ground-swells, her wedge-like bows caused the water to ripple before
them like a swift current meeting a sharp obstacle in the stream. It was
only as she sank into the water, in stemming a swell, that anything like
foam could be seen under her forefoot. A long line of swift-receding
bubbles, however, marked her track, and she no sooner came abreast of
any given group of spectators than she was past it--resembling the
progress of a porpoise as he sports along a harbor.
Ten minutes after passing the palace, or the pitch of the promontory,
the lugger opened another bay, one wider and almost as deep as that on
which Porto Ferrajo stands, and here she took the breeze without the
intervention of any neighboring rocks, and her speed was essentially
increased. Hitherto, her close proximity to the shore had partially
becalmed her, though the air had drawn round the promontory, making
nearly a fair wind of it; but now the currents came fully on her beam,
and with much more power. She hauled down her tacks, flattened in her
sheets, luffed, and was soon out of sight, breasting up to windward of a
point that formed the eastern extremity of the bay last mentioned.
All this time the Proserpine had not been idle. As soon as she
discovered that the lugger was endeavoring to escape, her rigging was
alive with men. Sail after sail was set, one white cloud succeeding
another, until she was a sheet of canvas from her trucks to her
bulwarks.
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