ii.

how the yellow cog crossed the bar of gironde.

for two days the yellow cog ran swiftly before a northeasterly

wind, and on the dawn of the third the high land of ushant lay

like a mist upon the shimmering sky-line. there came a plump of

rain towards mid-day and the breeze died down, but it freshened

again before nightfall, and goodwin hawtayne veered his sheet and

held head for the south. next morning they had passed belle

isle, and ran through the midst of a fleet of transports

returning from guienne. sir nigel loring and sir oliver

buttesthorn at once hung their shields over the side, and

displayed their pennons as was the custom, noting with the

keenest interest the answering symbols which told the names of

the cavaliers who had been constrained by ill health or wounds to

leave the prince at so critical a time.

that evening a great dun-colored cloud banked up in the west, and

an anxious man was goodwin hawtayne, for a third part of his crew

had been slain, and half the remainder were aboard the galleys,

so that, with an injured ship, he was little fit to meet such a

storm as sweeps over those waters. all night it blew in short

fitful puffs, heeling the great cog over until the water curled

over her lee bulwarks. as the wind still freshened the yard was

lowered half way down the mast in the morning. alleyne,

wretchedly ill and weak, with his head still ringing from the

blow which he had received, crawled up upon deck, water-swept and

aslant, it was preferable to the noisome, rat-haunted dungeons

which served as cabins. there, clinging to the stout halliards

of the sheet, he gazed with amazement at the long lines of black

waves, each with its curling ridge of foam, racing in endless

succession from out the inexhaustible west. a huge sombre cloud,

flecked with livid blotches, stretched over the whole seaward

sky-line, with long ragged streamers whirled out in front of it.

far behind them the two galleys labored heavily, now sinking

between the rollers until their yards were level with the waves,

and again shooting up with a reeling, scooping motion until every

spar and rope stood out hard against the sky. on the left the

low-lying land stretched in a dim haze, rising here and there

into a darker blur which marked the higher capes and headlands.

the land of france! alleyne's eyes shone as he gazed upon it.

the land of france!--the very words sounded as the call of a

bugle in the ears of the youth of england. the land where their

fathers had bled, the home of chivalry and of knightly deeds, the

country of gallant men, of courtly women, of princely buildings,

of the wise, the polished and the sainted. there it lay, so

still and gray beneath the drifting wrack--the home of things

noble and of things shameful--the theatre where a new name might

be made or an old one marred. from his bosom to his lips came

the crumpled veil, and he breathed a vow that if valor and

goodwill could raise him to his lady's side, then death alone

should hold him back from her. his thoughts were still in the

woods of minstead and the old armory of twynham castle, when the

hoarse voice of the master-shipman brought them back once more to

the bay of biscay.

"by my troth, young sir," he said, "you are as long in the face

as the devil at a christening, and i cannot marvel at it, for i

have sailed these waters since i was as high as this whinyard,

and yet i never saw more sure promise of an evil night."

"nay, i had other things upon my mind," the squire answered.

"and so has every man," cried hawtayne in an injured voice. "let

the shipman see to it. it is the master-shipman's affair. put

it all upon good master hawtayne! never had i so much care since

first i blew trumpet and showed cartel at the west gate of

southampton."

"what is amiss then?" asked alleyne, for the man's words were as

gusty as the weather.

"amiss, quotha? here am i with but half my mariners, and a hole

in the ship where that twenty-devil stone struck us big enough to

fit the fat widow of northam through. it is well enough on this

tack, but i would have you tell me what i am to do on the other.

we are like to have salt water upon us until we be found pickled

like the herrings in an easterling's barrels."

"what says sir nigel to it?"

"he is below pricking out the coat-armor of his mother's uncle.

'pester me not with such small matters!' was all that i could get

from him. then there is sir oliver. 'fry them in oil with a

dressing of gascony,' quoth he, and then swore at me because i

had not been the cook. 'walawa,' thought i, 'mad master, sober

man'--so away forward to the archers. harrow and alas! but they

were worse than the others."

"would they not help you then?"

"nay, they sat tway and tway at a board, him that they call

aylward and the great red-h