CHAPTER VIII.
"Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne M'a rendu fou!" VICTOR HUGO.
It was half an hour past midnight.

Sir Philip was left in absolute solitude to enjoy his meditative stroll on deck, for the full radiance of light that streamed over the sea and land was too clear and brilliant to necessitate the attendance of any of the sailors for the purpose of guarding the _Eulalie_.

She was safely anchored and distinctly visible to all boats or fishing craft crossing the Fjord, so that unless a sudden gale should blow, which did not seem probable in the present state of the weather, there was nothing for the men to do that need deprive them of their lawful repose.

Errington paced up and down slowly, his yachting shoes making no noise, even as they left no scratch on the spotless white deck, that shone in the night sunshine like polished silver.

The Fjord was very calm,--on one side it gleamed like a pool of golden oil in which the outline of the _Eulalie_ was precisely traced, her delicate masts and spars and drooping flag being drawn in black lines on the yellow water as though with a finely pointed pencil.