CHAPTER XVII. HOW THE YELLOW COG CROSSED THE BAR OF GIRONDE.

Fortwodaystheyellowcogranswiftlybeforeanortheasterlywind,andonthedawnofthethirdthehighlandofUshantlaylikeamistupontheshimmeringsky-line.Therecameaplumpofraintowardsmid-dayandthebreezedieddown,butitfreshenedagainbeforenightfall,andGoodwinHawtayneveeredhissheetandheldheadforthesouth.NextmorningtheyhadpassedBelleIsle,andranthroughthemidstofafleetoftransportsreturningfromGuienne.SirNigelLoringandSirOliverButtesthornatoncehungtheirshieldsovertheside,anddisplayedtheirpennonsaswasthecustom,notingwiththekeenestinteresttheansweringsymbolswhichtoldthenamesofthecavalierswhohadbeenconstrainedbyillhealthorwoundstoleavetheprinceatsocriticalatime. Thateveningagreatdun-coloredcloudbankedupinthewest,andananxiousmanwasGoodwinHawtayne,forathirdpartofhiscrewhadbeenslain,andhalftheremainderwereaboardthegalleys,sothat,withaninjuredship,hewaslittlefittomeetsuchastormassweepsoverthosewaters.Allnightitblewinshortfitfulpuffs,heelingthegreatcogoveruntilthewatercurledoverherleebulwarks.Asthewindstillfreshenedtheyardwasloweredhalfwaydownthemastinthemorning.Alleyne,wretchedlyillandweak,withhisheadstillringingfromtheblowwhichhehadreceived,crawledupupondeck.Water-sweptandaslant,itwaspreferabletothenoisome,rat-haunteddungeonswhichservedascabins.There,clingingtothestouthalliardsofthesheet,hegazedwithamazementatthelonglinesofblackwaves,eachwithitscurlingridgeoffoam,racinginendlesssuccessionfromouttheinexhaustiblewest.Ahugesombrecloud,fleckedwithlividblotches,stretchedoverthewholeseawardsky-line,withlongraggedstreamerswhirledoutinfrontofit.Farbehindthemthetwogalleyslaboredheavily,nowsinkingbetweentherollersuntiltheiryardswerelevelwiththewaves,andagainshootingupwithareeling,scoopingmotionuntileverysparandropestoodouthardagainstthesky.Ontheleftthelow-lyinglandstretchedinadimhaze,risinghereandthereintoadarkerblurwhichmarkedthehighercapesandheadlands.ThelandofFrance!Alleyne'seyesshoneashegazeduponit.ThelandofFrance!—theverywordssoundedasthecallofabugleintheearsoftheyouthofEngland.Thelandwheretheirfathershadbled,thehomeofchivalryandofknightlydeeds,thecountryofgallantmen,ofcourtlywomen,ofprincelybuildings,ofthewise,thepolishedandthesainted.Thereitlay,sostillandgraybeneaththedriftingwrack—thehomeofthingsnobleandofthingsshameful—thetheatrewhereanewnamemightbemadeoranoldonemarred.Fromhisbosomtohislipscamethecrumpledveil,andhebreathedavowthatifvalorandgoodwillcouldraisehimtohislady'sside,thendeathaloneshouldholdhimbackfromher.HisthoughtswerestillinthewoodsofMinsteadandtheoldarmoryofTwynhamCastle,whenthehoarsevoiceofthemaster-shipmanbroughtthembackoncemoretotheBayofBiscay. “Bymytroth,youngsir,”hesaid,“youareasl