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These were the thoughts that occupied Hornblower's mind as Hotspur stood in once more past the Parquette for a fresh look into Brest. The wind was south-easterly this afternoon, and Hotspur was running free--creeping along under topsails--with her look-outs posted at her mastheads in the fresh morning sunshine. From foremast and mizzen-mast came two successive hails.

'Deck! There's a ship coming down the channel!'

'She's a frigate, sir!' That was Bush supplementing Cheeseman's report.

'Very well,' hailed Hornblower in return. Maybe the appearance of the frigate had nothing to do with his own evolutions in the Iroise, but the contrary was much more likely. He glanced round the ship; the hands were engaged in the routine of holystoning the decks, but he could effect a transformation in five minutes. He could clear for action or he could set all sail at a moment's notice.

'Steady as you go,' he growled at the quartermaster. 'Mr Cargill, we'll hoist our colours, if you please.'

'There she is, sir,' said Prowse. The glass showed a frigate's topgallant sails; she was reaching down the Goulet with a fair wind, on a course that would intersect Hotspur's some miles ahead.