Mademoiselle Lafargue was reading at one of the windows of the main
cabin when Anthony came in. He went to the arms-chest in one corner,
threw up the lid, and stood glowering into it. She said nothing. He
took out a musket, examined the lock, and snapped it; and he did the
like with a half-dozen more. Then pistols: he carefully laid them upon
a settle in a row--cold, shining, deadly; he loaded them, and the
muskets, too.
Then she spoke.
"Something has happened," she said.
"There is a vessel ahead that I have reason to mistrust," said Anthony.
"A slatternly-looking ship; the same that I saw going up and down the
coast before you sent for me."
She put down her book and arose.
"They have found us!" she said, but she said it without a deal of fear.
"What a strange thing, in all these seas, to have come to this one
place!"
"It was no chance," said Anthony, scowling; "it is not in nature to hit
a thing off as precisely as that."
"You have suffered," she said; "you have suffered a deal, and dared
more; and now you are in a new danger when you thought to win safely
home. I am sorry."
Yes, she was sorry; he saw it in her eyes. She was wistful, too, and
it pleased him. To have a beautiful woman think so of one is no mean
thing. But this was not all, and he continued to look at her. Sorrow
did not make her hold herself so proudly; wistfulness did not keep her
eyes so level; and neither of them gave her manner that serene sure
quality.
It was confidence. His heart quickened as he understood: danger had
come again, but nowhere in her mind was there a doubt but he'd make
through it; she had no thought but that he'd keep her safe. Her silence
was saying a thing to him any man would be proud of; and his mind was
still listening to it when he heard voices hailing the ship, and the
creak of blocks from very close at hand.
They went upon deck. It was crisp and blowing; the waves were short and
tufted with white; the light gleamed on the sea; and the blue swept
overhead and down into the west like a great cascade. The stranger
brig was lying, with flapping sails, directly in their course; there
was nothing for Anthony to do but throw his own ship out, and the two
drifted and rose and fell within speaking distance, Tarrant stood at
the rail amidships, a sneer upon his handsome mouth and victory in his
look. Blake was near him. Both were watching the ship, and Blake's
laugh came ringing over the water.
"Now hold to that," he said, "and we'll be aboard of you directly."
Anthony heard a splash at the stern of the brig; they had launched a
boat. Two men pulled it around to the vessel's side, and Blake prepared
to step into it. Anthony took up one of the muskets, and looked to its
flint and priming; then he balanced it upon the high bulwark before him.
"If you value your peace of mind, you'll keep your distance," he said.
Blake gazed at him with a deal of good humor.
"What," said he, "are you still of the mind to carry yourself so?"
Then, looking past Anthony, he roared with laughing. "So help me
God!" he said, "it's mademoiselle! Well struck, sir! Mademoiselle,
I congratulate you on a champion who keeps his pose, no matter how
events point or carry."
Tarrant spoke, a bitter look in his face. Anthony could not hear the
words, but the gesture motioned Blake into the boat, quite plainly. And
the young men called across the place between the two vessels:
"Tarrant, if that man attempts to board me, I'll have his life."
With the same sneering, bitter look, Tarrant faced the ship for a
moment, not stirring nor speaking; Blake, never heeding Anthony's
words, leaped into the boat. Then a man appeared on the brig's after
deck--a man who held his head well up and stepped with the sureness
of a great cat. Anthony, the musket still on the bulwark before him,
stared at sight of him.
"Captain Weir!" said mademoiselle. Her hand held tightly to Anthony's
sleeve.
"How does he come aboard that vessel?" said the young man.
"He has ventured out, looking for us," said mademoiselle. "He is our
friend."
There was a deep look in Anthony's eyes, as he frowned across the
stretch of water between the two vessels.
"Yes, he is our friend," he said. "But still I ask, how does he come on
board this ship, of all others?"
After a short word with Tarrant, Weir came to the brig's side and
hailed the _Stevens_. Anthony replied.
"I desire to come aboard you," Weir said. They saw a smile on his face,
as he added: "Have I your permission?"
"To you," said Anthony, "there is no objection. You will be welcomed."
Weir waved his hand, still smiling; but when he ordered Blake out of
the boat his face was stern enough. After the pirate climbed aboard,
Weir was seen standing bold upright before the two; and what he said
to them must have cut like a whip, for Blake shrugged and turned away,
and Tarrant lowered ill-favoredly.
In a short space Captain Weir stood upon the _Rufus Stevens's_ deck; he
bowed to mademoiselle and shook Anthony by the hand.
"A most fortunate meeting," he said. "I've searched these seas for
weeks in the hope of finding you."
"Why?" asked Anthony. "And what brought this particular region to your
mind? And how did you come in this brig?"
It was a story soon told. The captain had been away,--at Boston--at New
York--and there were several other places,--all on the business of the
house of Stevens. And when he returned he visited Anthony's lodgings in
Sassafras Street; but Anthony had gone. He had been gone for some time.
The captain then went to Pump Court; but Tom Horn was absent, also.
"Then," said the captain, "I thought of Christopher Dent, and went
to his place, feeling he'd have some news to tell. But he would say
little. He seemed to cuddle what he knew up in his mind and was as
close-mouthed as a man could be. Yes, you were away from the city. He
thought you were very far away. Tom Horn, too, was gone; he fancied
Tom was with you, but as to that he was not sure. There was something
in his manner that put an edge on my attention; and so," said Captain
Weir, with his cold smile, "I questioned him in ways he was not used
to, and in a little he let slip the fact that mademoiselle, too, was
gone, that you had all taken ship and were venturing somewhere at sea."
"Poor Christopher!" said mademoiselle.
"As honest a soul as ever lived," said Captain Weir, still with the
cold smile. "And, having got so far with him, I spoke of my close
association with the house of Stevens, of my friendship with your
uncle," to Anthony, "of my regard for yourself. I said your problems
were mine; anything having to do with the business was for me to
know; if an effort were being made that promised help in the firm's
difficulties, I should be told. And then he told me."
"And then?" said Anthony.
"The chance that took you away," said Captain Weir, "seemed mad and
slim; but, for all that, I set myself to get a ship and make after you."
He made inquiries at the exchanges, and almost at once heard of a brig,
newly come into the river from a trading-venture along the coast.
"A trading-venture!" said Anthony, his eyes narrowed.
"Yes," replied Weir. "They said little about it; and, as they seemed
disinclined to speak, I did not question them. The vessel was ready,
provisioned, and manned; and as Tarrant is a good officer, and had
voyaged with me more than once, I settled my terms, stepped aboard, and
we made sail."
"In Tarrant you may have an excellent seaman, and in Blake the same,
I'll not gainsay their skill," said Anthony. "But you have also in
them two hectoring, damned ruffians whom I would trust with neither my
throat nor my purse."
Captain Weir smiled, and seemed in no way troubled.
"I know Tarrant of old," he said. "And Blake's name and doings are
common things. But they can handle a ship, and that's enough for me. If
I'd kept from the sea every time a bully lifted his snout at me, I'd
been a landsman all my life. Never bother yourself about this pair; for
as I know them, so do they know me, and if they speak at all in any
matter of importance, their voices will not be above a whisper."
Anthony took note of Weir--a careful note; and for the first time he
saw in him the man old Rufus had chosen years before to master the ship
he was giving up. And this note, too, had in it the suggestion of a
wilderness cat, not only in the step but in the body's posture. The
merchant captain who had won through hostile fleets with his goods, and
beaten off attacking vessels of war, was in the steady, cold, green
eyes; the red edges of the cutlass-stroke down his face spoke like lips
of the deadly fighter who closed instantly with his foes; his manner
was the still top of a vast depth of resolution, lashed up only on
occasions. And Anthony looked at him; away at the back of his mind odd
thoughts were forming.
All three vessels now dressed their idle sails to the wind; the brig
followed the schooner and ship. Corkery, having had news of Weir's
presence, paced the schooner's deck contentedly.
And mademoiselle was glad the captain was to remain on board the ship.
For they had been so short-handed. Anthony and two men were not enough
to handle that great vessel, for all her meager spread of sail; and
the ship must get home safely. She must! for she carried the means of
slackening the law's processes and easing many hatreds. The captain
smiled when she said this. Anthony would have managed very well; there
were few that would have ventured, as he had ventured, into that lonely
sea, so feared and cursed by sailors, and whose place in the world's
waters was so vague that no two charts gave it the same position. Oh,
yes; Anthony was a man to carry a thing through when once he had begun
it; and the captain's eyes were very cold and very steady, indeed,
as they fastened upon the young man on the forward deck, adding his
weight to a seaman's, hauling away on a line. And mademoiselle found
herself looking at those eyes, so like hard, green agates; and she felt
something like fear creep upon her.
They had breakfast. During its course, Tom Horn said never a word;
indeed, he had not spoken since Weir had come into the ship; he ate
and stared and listened, and sometimes he sat quite still, his eyes on
the captain, and a queer down-drawn twitch to his lip. Weir gave them
what news he had of the port; and Anthony laid out the ship's papers
for him to see.
"Excellent traffic!" said the captain, over the items of cargo. He
sipped his small glass of brandy. "Oh, excellent! Your uncle knew the
East; he seemed to feel the levels where the rich things lay. It was
a kind of genius with him. Here we have a shipful of value such as no
other merchant could have collected." He finished the brandy. "And all
in good condition, you say?"
Anthony had the hatches off after breakfast; and Captain Weir saw the
merchandise for himself. He came out of the hold and dusted his fingers
and clothes with a kerchief.
"It could not be snugger nor better," he said. He looked at
mademoiselle. "Yes, we must get her safe, supercargo; no chance must
take her from us now."
The wind kept brisk for days, and it blew the three vessels before it;
then it shifted and came out of the northeast with a shrill cut, a
whipping of the water, and a racing of clouds. The schooner and brig
stripped close to keep in the crippled ship's company; and Anthony,
with Weir's help, added more braces to the makeshift mast. One morning,
at dawn, after a blowy night, and with the Barbados somewhere ahead,
they saw the brig tossing away to the south and the schooner nowhere
visible. All that day the gale lashed and raved and drove into the
southwest; the sky was like lead and seemed to touch the wild waters.
In the first dog-watch the ship, slow to mind her helm, was struck by
a great sea; the man at the wheel was washed overboard, and Captain
Weir was dashed against one of the boats and carried below with a
broken leg. And so Anthony was left to work the ship with one man,
for Tom Horn had little power in his body and no sea-going skill in
his hands. For three days and nights the young man slept only while
mademoiselle held the wheel at quiet spaces in the storm; he kept sail
to the vessel, and ran her, upright, before the shock of the wind. Then
the storm died down, and the sea raced itself out; and Captain Weir,
stretched on his bed, gray with pain but with steadfast eyes, said:
"Is the brig still in sight?"
Anthony bowed, and, grim and tired, stood in the cabin doorway.
"She's hung to us like a limpet," he answered. "I've said a deal
against Tarrant and Blake, and I feel I'll say more. But they can
manage a ship, and they keep to their purpose; and I trust God Almighty
will hold those things to their credit when they finally stand before
Him, stripped and sorry and ashamed."
Captain Weir eased his hurt leg, held tight between bits of scantling.
"You need sleep," he said to Anthony. "You cannot work the vessel
yourself, with a single man. Get a message to the brig; have them send
two hands aboard of us."
Anthony frowned.
"I have no liking for that ship, as you know," he said. "And I'd rather
keep her people from my deck."
"Is it not time to put our dislikes aside?" said the captain. "Should
we not think of the ship, and what getting her home means? Have we any
fear of two foremast men, no matter what vessel they come out of?"
Mademoiselle was at the wheel when Anthony came heavily on deck. The
ocean was heaving in long, smooth swells, green and wonderful. A signal
was made to the brig, and the two vessels bore toward each other. It
was Blake whom Anthony spoke to; and when he asked for the men the
pirate laughed cheerfully and agreed. He came with the boat, his big
body laid against the tiller-handle; and it was he who caught the
rope flung by Anthony and made it fast; and the two men, able-looking
fellows and active, came nimbly over the side.
"Good fortune," said Blake, as he cast loose, and made away again.
"Your mast still stands, and you've seen the worst weather you're like
to see. With this wind we look to convoying you to your dock in less
than ten days' time."
Anthony pointed the ship to the northwest; as level as a gull's flight,
the blunted bowsprit held to Henlopen. Then he gave the wheel to one of
the new hands and pointed to the compass.
"Hold her so," he said.
Captain Weir asked to be brought upon deck; he lay on a mattress under
the stump of the mainmast, his leg straight and stiff and dead-looking;
and ready to his hand lay a pair of loaded pistols.
"Now," said he to Anthony, "you may get some rest, all of you. I keep
watch on deck until you've slept the clock at least half around."
Tom Horn stood at the foot of the companion-ladder when Anthony came
below; the man's face looked wan in the half-light, and the pale glow
of his eyes had the cold melancholy of the moonlight.
"The deck," said he, "is held by the brig's people. And the brig is not
your friend."
"Captain Weir is there," said Anthony tolerantly.
"Are the hawks to be trusted when the swan come down the wind?" asked
Tom Horn mildly.
"The captain will see to us," said Anthony.
Mademoiselle, worn and faint from the long battle with the storm, stood
by.
"The captain is hurt; he is held fast to his bed," she protested.
"He will hear," said Anthony, dull with sleep. "An old fox, and with
the blow of a bear. The brig will not approach while he is there; never
fear."
"But," said mademoiselle, a vague dread in her heart, "if she should?
If the men on deck should overpower him?"
"Then," said Anthony, "I shall hear. For all I am so full of sleep,
I'll be keen enough, if wanted."
He went into his cabin, and in a moment they heard the cords of his bed
straining under his weight as he threw himself down.
"How tired he must be!" said the girl. "Day and night he fought for our
lives. Oh, I trust there will be nothing more to try him."
"Hark!" said Tom Horn, as he held up his hand and she listened. There
was a creaking of blocks, a humming among the cordage, a crowding of
wind into the sails. And the seas were heard leaping monotonously at
the great prow like running wolves at the throat of a buck.
"It is the wind and the sea," said Tom Horn. "There is no evil in
either in this region. But evil may ride them, as one may ride an
honest horse to do a wrongful deed."
Mademoiselle's eyes widened, but she said nothing.
"We are in clean seas," said Tom in his hushed voice. "God's sky is
over us, and we've kept our way through many dangers. But we've taken
from the Sargasso what it claimed for its own; and a curse will reach
from a long way off if the spirit in it be very bitter. Everywhere
in that strange sea is the stink of evil; wrong springs up like lush
grass; horror takes shapes that even God had not foreseen." His voice
went to a whisper. "But in the months I was there I came to know the
great truth: I learned that the world, the sea, and the wind went round
and round, never stopping; and the knowledge of this law helped me to
make away from my captivity." He shook his head, and the mild look of
a child was in his face. "But the Sargasso had claimed me, and one day
it found me out; the winds carried its curse to me, and it was then
that its haze came between me and the world."
In the forecastle the sailorman who stood so courageously with Anthony
through the storm slept soundly. And now mademoiselle, weary beyond
thought, went to her cabin and also slept. In the late afternoon light
Tom Horn kept the deck like a quiet wraith; the seamen from the brig
held the ship upon her course with an easy hand; gray of face, and with
eyes hot with fever, Captain Weir lay without movement, the brace of
pistols beside him; to the south the brig, under scant sail, bounded
like a checked hound.
And Anthony slept. Fatigue had unbraced and slackened his body; he had
sunk so deeply into the strange place of sleep that only the stirring
of his heart kept him in the world. His mind received no impressions;
his nerves were still; and he lay at a great depth for a long time.
Then he arose to the lower level of dreams; he had a dull, formless
sense of himself; then he realized other things and gradually came to
speculate upon them. Feet raced across the vault of heaven; the corners
of the world were straining; there was a thundering as of wind in many
sails; great voices lifted against each other like blades.
But this passed, and he sank again; darkness held him; he did not move.
But light will creep through the scum of a tarn; it will brighten
dull, still water; it will plunge its shining arm deep into the muck
and bring up those living things which have only heard the first faint
whisperings of the world. A sound once more lifted Anthony from the
pit; again he lay at the dream level, and the sound broke urgently over
him. It had a dim, mournful insistance; he could not bear it; all the
trouble God permitted seemed in the sound; and his heart raced in pity
and desire. His spirit struggled heavily; but his body had no footing
in the world; it lay like the dead. He suffered keenly. The call
broke in shrill waves through the gray place of sleep. He was wanted!
Somewhere--some one needed him. Bitterly he strove upward; he fought
as a dark angel might have fought, under the foot of Michael; he raved
and cursed and fought upward from level to level; the vagueness fell
from him like rent veils. He burst through the gates of sleep. His body
leaped up.
It was mademoiselle who was calling.
"Anthony! Do you hear, Anthony? Oh, do you hear me?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I hear." Like a dull-witted bear he pawed at the
latch of his door. "What is it?"
"They are on deck," she said. "I am locked in my cabin. I have been
calling you, but you would not waken."
"Who is on deck?" The door would not give, and he wrenched at it
savagely. "Who locked you in?"
"Tarrant. And Blake. They came aboard in the night. They have taken
charge of the ship."
Anthony's wits came to an edge; he stopped wrenching at the door, and
stood, calling its possibilities to mind.
"What of Captain Weir?" he said. "Where is he?"
"I do not know," said mademoiselle.
Anthony fixed upon the spot where the door had been fastened, and laid
his weight against it. The nails started, and the ironmongery gave way.
Then he released mademoiselle, and she was trembling.
"I was afraid," she said. "You slept so, you seemed very far away. I
was afraid."
He held her close to him.
"There is rare courage in you," he said. "Call it out; make it stand by
you."
"I am not afraid now--for myself. But you'll be going on deck. I'm
afraid for you."
The light was dim where they stood; but he looked into her eyes, and
there seemed a fine brightness through the world.
"You fear for me because I am your man," he said to her. "Is it so?"
"Yes," she said, quietly.
He put her hair back from her brow and kissed her there.
"I am satisfied," he said. "You belong to me. And, because of that,
there is nothing in life that shall harm you."
He went into his cabin, and he came out with a brace of pistols; one of
them he gave to her.
"Stay here," he said, "and keep this by you, in case of need."
Then he went to the companion-ladder, and at the foot of it he paused.
For there were voices on deck; one of them was Captain Weir's, and it
was thick with anger.
"Let us have no more words," the captain was saying. "I have my own
thoughts about any matter in my charge, as I've told you more than once
before. I warned you not to come aboard this ship and that I would
tolerate no interference. It is now daylight; get into your boat, go
back to your vessel, and take Blake with you."
It was Tarrant who answered.
"You are injured," he said. "It will be many a day before you are up
and active. And, as what is to be done should be done quickly, the need
is too great for us to leave the vessel without--"
But he was stopped by a burst of bitter cursing. Softly Anthony went
up the ladder, and he stopped again when his eyes were level with the
combing. Weir had lifted himself to his elbow; his face was twisted
with pain, and he held a pistol leveled at Tarrant, who stood,
sneering and disbelieving, before him.
"Over the side," said the captain. "Over the side, and into your boat.
I've warned you I'd one day split your skull with a bullet if you
continued to cross me!"
"In your condition," said Tarrant, "it is best not to worry. Above all,
do not worry about me. I am in a fairly settled state of mind here; and
I think--"
Cold, deadly, with an ugly twist at one corner of his mouth, Captain
Weir looked along the barrel of the pistol and fired; Tarrant, with his
hands at his chest and death in his face, fell. As Anthony leaped upon
deck there came a second shot; the pistol dropped from Weir's hand, and
he stretched back upon his bed.
Blake blew the smoke from the muzzle of his weapon, and viewed the two
bodies.
"Now," said he to Anthony, "here's a state of affairs. Here's a cutting
down of a ship's company. Two gone to the devil as quick as you'd wink
your eye."
But Anthony gave him no attention; he went to Captain Weir and saw he
was beyond all aid: to him the words of Weir had been the words of an
honest man, resolute in his defense of the right, and Anthony's heart
tightened in his chest. But, seaman-like, he looked first at the trim
of the sail and then at the compass, which told him the ship was headed
far out of the course he had laid down.
"Northwest!" he growled to the helmsman. "Point her that way, and hold
her so."
The man's look mocked him, and there was no move to obey; so Anthony
drove a blow into his face that spun him away from the wheel. Grim and
lowering, the young man set the ship on her course. And while he did
this Blake stood leaning with his back to the rail and looking vastly
amused.
"Now, by God!" said the pirate, "you are the most satisfactory fellow
in the world. One need never cudgel his brains about you; you do
precisely the thing expected of you."
With his chin out and a scowl on his brow, Anthony looked at him.
"I hope to be able to say something the same of you," said he. "For I
expect you, with no loss of time, to lower a boat and take yourself and
your two men out of this ship."
The sun stood red on the eastern edge of the ocean; the wind blew
freshly, the ship held upon her altered course, and the sea ran crisply
beside her. The brig was frolicking a league away.
Blake shouted with laughter.
"Good!" said he. "Splendid! If heaven had only sent you among a group
of play-actors, what a man you'd have been! I'd have enjoyed seeing
you, for, comedy deliciously played is a rare thing."
With a turn of the wheel Anthony brought the ship to, and, as she
stood with her sails muttering, he called to the two sailors who stood
together in the waist, one stanching the flowing blood of the other:
"Hoist out the yawl! You'll have a more peaceful time in your own
vessel, so you're going back to her. Be lively now!"
He fingered the trigger-guard of his pistol; the seamen made haste to
free the tackle of a small boat; and Blake laughed louder than ever.
"Never tell me this is to be the piece you played on board _Le
Mousquet_!" he said. His big chest swelled with mirth, and his fists
drummed upon it. "Well, God sends us good luck now and then, for all.
But I'd say one word to you; I would presume no more. Play it as you
did before! For," and he shoved his head forward, "do you recall the
price I once put on the pleasure of hearing and seeing you? My two
thumbs!" He smiled at Anthony, and beneath the good humor there was a
gleam of the tiger. "My two thumbs!"
"I remember," said Anthony. "And, also, I see the boat will be launched
all the swifter if you lend a hand. And it will be better for you if
you spend some of your good humor in getting safe out of my sight!"
There were about two yards between the two men; Blake leaped it with a
swiftness that took Anthony by surprise. The pistol roared wrathfully,
but the pirate was holding its muzzle upward; then the two closed.
"Now," said Blake, "we shall see how high you'll hold you hand and
head. By God, I'll dress you! I'll make you step!"
Dour, silent, Anthony drove a short, stabbing blow at the man's face;
a spurt of blood followed it; and Blake was smiling through a crimson
mask.
"Well struck," said he. And as he said it he beat Anthony about the
body with a power that made the young man's breath catch and his ribs
bend. Gasping, Anthony gave back.
"What!" jeered Blake, "so soon? Is this the man who talked so highly?
Is this, indeed, our famous fighter?"
But Anthony had the two seamen in mind; and, while he avoided Blake, he
looked toward the waist. The men had let go the boat's tackle and, each
armed with a belaying-pin, were hurrying aft. He must beat Blake down
before they got in hand's reach; if he failed, he was lost. And the
pirate was pressing forward, his face a smear of blood but his laugh
persisting.
"Where are the thews I've heard so much of?" he mocked. "Your body is
big enough, but it has no more guts than a drum. Stand to, and I'll--"
But Anthony was on him like a wolf. A terrible blow on the side of the
head stopped Blake's jeers, and he rocked on his feet; another one
down below, and the life was wheezing out of his throat. Blake closed;
his great arms wound about Anthony; the young man strove with all his
power, but he could not escape. He heard the hurrying feet of the
seamen behind him; then came the voice of mademoiselle, high-pitched,
almost a scream.
"Go back!" it said. "Go back! I'll fire if you take another step."
Anthony forced Blake around, and so saw the length of the deck forward,
over his shoulder. The girl, her eyes blazing, her hair loosened, stood
between him and the sailors; she had the pistol he had given her, and
it was lifted menacingly.
More time! What a girl! And time was what he needed then; just a
little time. He dug his elbow into Blake's throat and so shut off his
breath; the frightful blow on the side of the head had weakened the
man; but let him fight his way through this phase and he would recover.
Viciously the elbow dug deeper; with his great chest empty, the man let
go; his aimless feet took him back a step, and then the whistling blows
smashed into his body, and he fell.
Panting, torn, his face black and threatening, Anthony turned upon the
two men.
"Hoist out the yawl," he said.
With his own weight added to the lines, the boat was swung out and
lowered. Blake, broken and unconscious, was put into it, as was the
body of Tarrant; then the seamen pulled away toward the brig.
And when they had gone the _Rufus Stevens_ was put into the wind once
more; and Anthony, leaning against the wheel, said to mademoiselle:
"That is the last."
"Oh, I hope and pray it is so!" she said.
He took a shining strand of the dark, loosened hair in his hand and
kissed it; and she clung to him and looked up at him. And the winds of
the ocean stirred about them and filled the sails; and the great ship,
for whose safety they had endured so much, bore them slowly homeward.
[Illustration: "AND THE WINDS OF THE OCEAN STIRRED ABOUT THEM AND
FILLED THE SAILS."]