In the last boat which left the shore the two
commanders sat together in the sheets, a strange contrast to one
another, while under the feet of the rowers was a litter of huge
stones which Sir Nigel had ordered to be carried to the cog.
These once aboard, the ship set her broad mainsail, purple in
color, and with a golden St. Christopher bearing Christ upon his
shoulder in the centre of it. The breeze blew, the sail bellied,
over heeled the portly vessel, and away she plunged through the
smooth blue rollers, amid the clang of the minstrels on her poop
and the shouting of the black crowd who fringed the yellow beach.
To the left lay the green Island of Wight, with its long, low,
curving hills peeping over each other's shoulders to the sky-line;
to the right the wooded Hampshire coast as far as eye could
reach; above a steel-blue heaven, with a wintry sun shimmering
down upon them, and enough of frost to set the breath a-smoking.
"By St. Paul!" said Sir Nigel gayly, as he stood upon the poop
and looked on either side of him, "it is a land which is very
well worth fighting for, and it were pity to go to France for
what may be had at home.
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