"Only one great mistake has been made, Louis Belgrave," said Captain George Scott Fencelowe. He was a young man of eighteen; but the title by which he was addressed was genuine so far as his position was actually concerned, though it would hardly have passed muster before a court of admiralty of the United States, whose flag was displayed on the ensign-staff at the stern. The vessel was a small steam-yacht, only forty feet in length, but furnished in a miniature way with most of the appliances of a regular steamer. She had a cabin twelve feet long, whose broad divans could be changed into berths for the four principal personages on board of her. Abaft this apartment was a standing-room with seating accommodations for eight persons, or twelve with a little crowding, with luxurious cushions and an awning overhead when needed. Her pilot-house, engine-room, galley, and forecastle were as regular as though she had been an ocean steamer of a thousand tons. Her ordinary speed was ten knots an hour; but she could be driven up to twelve on an emergency, and had even made a trifle more than this when an extraordinary effort was required of the craft. She had been built for a Moorish Pacha of the highest rank and of unbounded wealth, who had ordered that no expense should be spared in her construction and outfit. She was built of steel as strong as it was possible to build a vessel of any kind; and in more than one heavy gale on the Mediterranean she had proved herself to be an unusually able and weatherly craft.