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
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