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

rtheverybulgeoftheside.“Ah,HolyMother,bewithusnow!” Ashespokethecograspedalongtheedgeofthereef,andalongwhitecurlingsheetofwoodwasplanedofffromhersidefromwaisttopoopbyajuttinghornoftherock.Atthesameinstantshelaysuddenlyover,thesaildrewfull,andsheplungedseawardsamidtheshoutingsoftheseamenandthearchers. “TheVirginbepraised!”criedtheshipman,wipinghisbrow.“ForthisshallbellswingandcandleburnwhenIseeSouthamptonWateroncemore.Cheerily,myhearts!Pullyarelyonthebowline!” “Bymysoul!Iwouldratherhaveadrydeath,”quothSirOliver.“Though,MortDieu!Ihaveeatensomanyfishthatitwerebutjusticethatthefishshouldeatme.NowImustbacktothecabin,forIhavematterstherewhichcravemyattention.” “Nay,SirOliver,youhadbestbidewithus,andstillshowyourensign,”SirNigelanswered“for,ifIunderstandthematteraright,wehavebutturnedfromonedangertotheother.” “GoodMasterHawtayne,”criedtheboatswain,rushingaft,“thewatercomesinuponusapace.Thewaveshavedriveninthesailwherewithwestrovetostopthehole.”Ashespoketheseamencameswarmingontothepoopandtheforecastletoavoidthetorrentwhichpouredthroughthehugeleakintothewaist.Highabovetheroarofthewindandtheclashofthesearosetheshrillhalf-humancriesofthehorses,astheyfoundthewaterrisingrapidlyaroundthem. “Stopitfromwithout!”criedHawtayne,seizingtheendofthewetsailwithwhichthegaphadbeenplugged.“Speedily,myhearts,orwearegone!”Swiftlytheyroveropestothecorners,andthen,rushingforwardtothebows,theyloweredthemunderthekeel,anddrewthemtightinsuchawaythatthesailshouldcovertheouterfaceofthegap.Theforceoftherushofwaterwascheckedbythisobstacle,butitstillsquirtedplentifullyfromeverysideofit.Atthesidesthehorseswereabovethebelly,andinthecentreamanfromthepoopcouldscarcetouchthedeckwithaseven-footspear.Thecoglaylowerinthewaterandthewavessplashedfreelyovertheweatherbulwark. “Ifearthatwecanscarcebideuponthistack,”criedHawtayne“andyettheotherwilldriveusontherocks.” “Mightwenothauldownsailandwaitforbettertimes?”suggestedSirNigel. “Nay,weshoulddriftupontherocks.ThirtyyearshaveIbeenonthesea,andneveryetingreaterstraits.YetweareinthehandsoftheSaints.” “Ofwhom,”criedSirOliver,“IlookmoreparticularlytoSt.JamesofCompostella,whohathalreadybefriendedusthisday,andonwhosefeastIherebyvowthatIshalleatasecondcarp,ifhewillbutinterposeasecondtime.” Thewrackhadthickenedtoseaward,andthecoastwasbutablurredline.TwovagueshadowsintheoffingshowedwherethegaleassesrolledandtosseduponthegreatAtlanticrollers.Hawtaynelookedwistfullyintheirdirection. “Iftheywouldbutliecloserwemightfindsafety,evenshouldthecogfounder.YouwillbearmeoutwithgoodMasterWithertonofSouthamptonthatIhavedoneallthatashipmanmight.Itwouldbewelltha