"It lacks now three minutes of the half-hour," shouted the captain, as
he gave me the longitude and the time. I admired the businesslike air
of the _Olympia_; but I have the feeling still that the captain was
just a little too precise in his reckoning. That may be all well
enough, however, where there is plenty of sea-room. But
over-confidence, I believe, was the cause of the disaster to the liner
_Atlantic_, and many more like her. The captain knew too well where he
was. There were no porpoises at all skipping along with the _Olympia_!
Porpoises always prefer sailing-ships. The captain was a young man, I
observed, and had before him, I hope, a good record.

Land ho! On the morning of July 19 a mystic dome like a mountain of
silver stood alone in the sea ahead. Although the land was completely
hidden by the white, glistening haze that shone in the sun like
polished silver, I felt quite sure that it was Flores Island. At
half-past four P.M. it was abeam. The haze in the meantime had
disappeared. Flores is one hundred and seventy-four miles from Fayal,
and although it is a high island, it remained many years undiscovered
after the principal group of the islands had been colonized.

Early on the morning of July 20 I saw Pico looming above the clouds on
the starboard bow. Lower lands burst forth as the sun burned away the
morning fog, and island after island came into view. As I approached
nearer, cultivated fields appeared, "and oh, how green the corn!" Only
those who have seen the Azores from the deck of a vessel realize the
beauty of the mid-ocean picture.

[Illustration: The island of Pico.]