In a word, that which both Raoul and Ithuel had fancied an islet was neither more nor less than a ship.
The stranger's head was to the northward, and his motion, before a light southerly air, could not have exceeded a knot an hour.

He had no other canvas spread than his three topsails and jib; though his courses were hanging in the brails.

His black hull was just beginning to show its details; and along the line of light yellow that enlivened his side were visible the dark intervals of thirteen ports; a real gun frowning in each.

Although the hammocks were not stowed, and the hammock-cloths had that empty and undressed look which is so common to a man-of-war in the night, it was apparent that the ship had an upper deck, with quarter-deck and forecastle batteries; or, in other words, that she was a frigate.

As she had opened the town of Porto Ferrajo several minutes before she was herself seen from the Feu Follet, an ensign was hanging from the end of her gaff, though there was not sufficient air to open its folds, in a way to let the national character of the stranger be known.
"Peste!" exclaimed Raoul Yvard, as soon as he had gazed a minute at the stranger in silence; "a pretty _cul de sac_ are we in, if that gentleman should happen to be an Englishman! What say you, Etooell; can _you_ make out anything of that ensign--your eyes are the best in the lugger ?" "It is too much for any sight to detairmine, at this distance, and that before the sun is risen; but, by having a glass ready, we shall soon know.