"
Archers and seamen lay flat upon the deck, waiting in stolid
silence for whatever fate might come. Hawtayne bent his weight
upon the tiller, and crouched to see under the bellying sail.
Sir Oliver and Sir Nigel stood erect with hands crossed in front
of the poop. Down swooped the great cog into the narrow channel
which was the portal to safety. On either bow roared the shallow
bar. Right ahead one small lane of black swirling water marked
the pilot's course. But true was the eye and firm the hand which
guided. A dull scraping came from beneath, the vessel quivered
and shook, at the waist, at the quarter, and behind sounded that
grim roaring of the waters, and with a plunge the yellow cog was
over the bar and speeding swiftly up the broad and tranquil
estuary of the Gironde.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW SIR NIGEL LORING PUT A PATCH UPON HIS EYE.
It was on the morning of Friday, the eight-and-twentieth day of
November, two days before the feast of St. Andrew, that the cog
and her two prisoners, after a weary tacking up the Gironde and
the Garonne, dropped anchor at last in front of the noble city of
Bordeaux.
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