"Ah, Sir Edward Woodville, noble Captain, gentle knight, how thou wert
head of all Christian knights, and now thou liest dead! Ever wast thou
the pattern of all true knights. The courtliest wast thou, that ever
bare shield, the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse.
Ever wast thou the goodliest person that ever came among press of
knights. The meekest and the gentlest that ever loved woman. The
sternest to thy mortal foe that ever laid spear in rest. And now thou
art dead! And I live. Ah, me. What dolour and grief is this; that I
could not give my life for thy life! Ah, sinful man that I am. How
shall I atone for my evil life? How dolorous hath been this day. And
the departing out of this world of all this meynie of joyous and gentle
men!"
Ralph listened, as in a dream. The voices ceased, and the whirr of a
night-jar hummed above the low wail of the deserted battle-field. The
faint sound of inarticulate pain rose and sank on the gentle night
breeze. The still air seemed to vibrate with pain.
Presently a soft hand touched his brow. He looked round. A slight form
was bending over him, and a gentle voice murmured,--"'Tis a friend; but
speak no word, there is yet danger around."
Ralph lay still, his senses had not yet recovered their usual vigour.
He liked lying still, as the balmy night air of midsummer fanned his
brow, watching the solemn stars blinking down, and the flitting bats as
they flickered to and fro. He felt desperately thirsty, and turned his
head to see if the mysterious figure were near.
"Father!--father!--ah me, how dolorous is the time! Father, shall we
not get hence? Alack! he heareth not! Father! the night grows damp,
thy wounds will stiffen. Alack! alack! he heedeth not!"
Again all was silent over that dismal scene. The heaps of dead men
glinted in the starlight, and the night wind stirred the torn and
tattered tabards till they rustled in the wind.
Ralph began to recover his senses as the chill air of night fanned his
forehead, but as he awoke to the reality of life, a numbing sense of
bitter pain passed through his heart. Where were all his friends?
Where were those gallant four hundred who had gone in all the pride of
strength and joyous manhood to win fame, and name, and fortune in the
sunny land of France? Where was Dicky Cheke? Alas, poor Dicky! Did he
need no ransom now? Had his thoughts come true? Was the only ransom he
would ever require the great ransom paid for all? There they lay, with
solemn upturned faces, whiter than their white tabards, and signed with
the ruddy sign of their "deare Lord." The solemn stars shone for their
funeral torches, and the rustling leaves of the deep, still forest
whispered a dirge for the silent dead.
*CHAPTER XXVII.*
*"OF THE CRAWLING TIDE."*
What happened during the days immediately following the fatal battle of
St Aubin du Cormier, Ralph Lisle never clearly knew. All he could
remember was an indistinct nightmare of strange faces, rough and coarse,
sometimes fierce and cruel, but amid them all he always saw a pale oval
face, with large, wistful, brown eyes, and masses of wavy, dark hair,
and then he felt quiet. He could recollect nothing until one night he
seemed suddenly to awake, and found himself in a low, rough room, with a
strong smell of burnt peat, and a fresh breeze blowing in through an
opening in one side. It was nearly dark, save where the bright light of
the moon fell upon the rude clay floor, all littered with straw and
refuse. Through the opening, which served for window and door alike, he
could see a broad gleam of glancing light which he did not trouble
himself to think about. He wondered where he could be. There were no
sounds in the room. He raised his head to look round. He could not do
it. Was he still in a dream? he wondered. Why could he not move
himself easily? He lay still again, and must have dozed off, for when
he again looked round there were some figures in the room, and one--that
of a girl--was softly stealing away from him towards a tall man, and he
could hear her say in a low tone,--
"He is sleeping gently."
"That is well, my daughter, go thou to rest now. Marie will see that he
is cared for."
Ralph made a little movement; the girl stopped, and looked round. There
was a small rushlight on a table; its light fell on her face. Where had
he seen that gentle, winsome head and eyes? Ralph said,--
"Where am I? What has happened? Why, what's come to my voice?"
"Oh, father, I am so glad!" cried the girl, and turned quickly back to
the couch where Ralph lay. The tall man stepped across the room, taking
the rushlight in his hand.
Ralph could not recall the face or figure; he felt sure he had never
seen either, and yet he had heard the voice.
"Thou art on the road to health, my son," said the man. "Thou hast been
like to die for a week past."
"Where am I?"
"Safe in the cottage of a hind. But thou shalt know all to-morrow an
thou art in trim to hear news."
So saying, the tall figure removed the light, and in a few minutes more
all was quiet in the cottage.
The next morning found Ralph much better. He now learnt where he was,
and who had saved him.
"But there is great risk still," said the girl, "and I know not how we
may fare. Jean is very rough, and I doubt he is not to be trusted far.
His wife Marie is as true as steel, but alack! we English are not
overmuch liked, and I hear there are men-at-arms beating the country
side. But now thou art better, we can move," she added cheerily.
Ralph saw how nobly these strangers had acted by him. He could not
understand why. They had risked their lives to save him, and this, too,
when the chances were very small that they could ever nurse him through
the fever, which resulted from the exhaustion, heat, and wounds of that
dreadful day of St Aubin. He did not yet know all.
"But who are you?" he asked languidly.
"Ah, now, who do you think?"
"You are not--no, you can't be. Well, I don't know who you are. But I
seem to have seen you before."
"Where? Can't you call it to mind?"
"Was it in the lists at Carisbrooke?"
"In sooth it was," said the girl, laughing; "and somewhere else, too."
"Not at Appuldurcombe, was it?"
"Ay, marry was it, and elsewhere, too. At it again." But then seeing
the effort of memory was too much for Ralph in his weak state, the girl
added,--"There, you can't think now. Lie still, and I will tell you.
Do you mind lending some poor vagrants a pony at Thruxton? Do you mind
a certain night, when you were nigh going over the edge of a cliff near
St Catherine's Down? You never knew who it was that spoke to you that
night in the mist? And you never knew who sent you the glove? Ah,
well! 'twas lucky for you you wore it, or father would have knocked you
off like all the others. And why do you think I did it?" she said, with
an arch smile.
"I can't tell," said Ralph, dreamily.
"Well, but you might think." Then seeing that Ralph's thoughts were far
away, she added, in a pitying tone,--"Why, because thou wast so kind to
father and me that day at Thruxton. You little knew who I was."
"And who are you?" said Ralph absently.
"Oh, that is a merry conceit. Don't you know now?"
"No; tell me. How can I tell?"
"Why, I'm Aunt Yolande's niece."
"Aunt Yolande's niece!" cried Ralph in amazement, utterly astounded at
the unexpected answer, and not at all able to take in the truth of the
remark.
"Yes I am, although you may find it hard to credit, and my father is Sir
George Lisle, and he fled for his life from the field of Stoke, trusting
to the generosity of the Captain of the Wight, who, he thought, was his
greatest enemy, but whom he knew to be a very noble knight."
"And he was not wrong," said Ralph, sadly but proudly.
"Nay he was not wrong. But he tried to give his life for the Captain's,
when he found out how great an injury he had done him. Do you remember
Sister Agnes that day I saw you at Appuldurcombe? Do you know who she
is?"
"No. Who is she?"
"She is my mother," said Magdalen, softly and sadly.
"Your mother!" said Ralph in astonishment. "But she is a nun."
"Yes, she is now; but she was Lady Lisle. I can't call her much to mind
at that time, for she left me when I was only four years old."
"Why did she leave you?" said Ralph, becoming more interested.
"'Tis a sad story, and I know not if I know all myself. But she was not
happy, and could not bear her life. She took the veil in London, and
became a Sister of St Clare."
"And how did you find out she was your mother?"
"Do you mind that night in the snow when father and the Captain fought?
You did not know it was the Hermit of St Catherine's and I who came. I
only found out too late; but I could not have done anything to prevent
their fighting had I known sooner. After father was so sore wounded, the
Hermit, who has been a knight himself, and knew father as a boy, took
him to the good Sisters of Appuldurcombe to be nursed, and for a long
time father was between life and death. In his ravings, Sister
Agnes--that's my mother, you know--who took her turn to nurse him with
the others--but not at first, because she had been very ill
herself--heard him call her by her real name, and she knew him, of
course, directly she saw him. She then for the first time heard how
cruelly he had mistrusted her in her flight, and that he--well, she made
up her mind to tell him everything if he should get well. I don't know
what happened, but father became quite altered. He was a long time
getting well; and then you all went on that dolorous journey. But you
never saw me passing you that evening near Wootton. Father's life was
at stake if he should be discovered; and he heard that there were spies
of the King's looking out for him; for a rumour had got abroad of an
unknown knight, wearing a Yorkist collar, having been at a tourney at
Carisbrooke--and it might have been the missing Lord Lovell. Well (but
I shall never get done), we managed to get on board a Norman ship of St
Vaast, come over with salt, which took us over to Barfleur; and then we
heard for the first time that Eustace Bowerman had gotten over there,
and was being made much of because he said he could tell the French
governor of the province all about what was going on here. I also heard
he had vowed to kill some one against whom he had a deadly hate, and I
knew that must be you. As Master Bowerman was a likely-looking youth,
and well spoken, and not wanting in a ready address and lying tongue, he
got on marvellous well, and indeed he helped the French; for they, who
thought the Captain of the Wight was a very powerful prince, seeing he
was uncle to our Queen, and who dreaded he would bring over a very
powerful meynie, were full glad to hear how small a force he could
muster, and that made them right hardy and joyous; so that they fought
on that bitter day with greater heart than they are wont to do when they
meet with us. For they knew right well that those other seventeen
hundred in red crosses were but poor weak Bretons. My father, who was a
well-known Yorkist, all of which faction were welcome in France as being
useful to keep our King in check, was readily allowed his freedom, and
he offered his sword to the Seigneur de la Trimouille in the hope he
might save some of our poor men's lives, but most of all he longed to
save the Captain of the Wight, and to tell him how sad he was at the
wrong he had done him. He never knew how vilely those caitiffs had set
upon you until I told him, and he always hated Bowerman ever after, and
Bowerman returned his hate."
This account had astonished Ralph. It seemed so surprising--so like a
tale told by a jongleur. That he should have helped his relative,
Yolande's brother, and her own niece, in such an accidental way; that
this should have led to his triumph at the tourney, and finally to the
saving of his own life, seemed so like a romance, that he could not
think it was all true.
"And so that is your father, Sir George Lisle, and you are my cousin
after all," said the young man dreamily. "Well, I shall believe it all,
I dare to say, some day, but now I seem more in a dream than ever."
"But here is father himself," said Magdalen, as the tall figure of the
knight entered the room.
Ralph would have risen and done reverence due to the rank and kinship of
this man who had so mysteriously interfered in his life, since he left
Thruxton without his knowing it.
Sir George, however, forbade his moving, and greeted his young kinsman
as kindly as his somewhat austere manner would let him.
"So thou knowest all now, my young cousin. The next matter is to get
thee safe to St Malo or Dinan, where I hear the Marechal de Rieux is
holding out. Ah, the bad captainship of that old soldier! Had--but
there, 'tis no use--'tis no use," broke off Sir George Lisle sadly, and
almost fiercely.
Magdalen tried to turn the conversation to other matters, but after
several attempts she gave it up, and they all became silent.
As Ralph grew stronger, his memory came back to him, and he asked for
details of the battle. He knew they were defeated, but he did not know
the extent of the catastrophe. Gradually the fearful nature of the
defeat dawned upon him; but it was long before he could realise it. The
noble Captain of the Wight, Maurice Woodville, all these strong and
lusty men, Dicky Cheke, all gone! It was too much. Ralph turned away,
and sobbed. The utter desolation of it all, his own physical
prostration, and the dreary prospect before him, completely overwhelmed
him, although he did not think of himself. He wished he had died. He
did not care to live. For some days after he learnt the news, Ralph was
listless and morose, and the knight seemed nearly as miserable. It was
with the utmost difficulty the girl was able to get either to take any
food, and she, poor child, at last was beginning to lose all interest in
anything. Their life was very uncomfortable. There was nothing to
divert them from their own sad thoughts. The Breton peasants with whom
they had taken refuge belonged to one of the Breton nobles, who had
fallen at St Aubin, and had hitherto proved themselves faithful enough.
But there was nothing beyond their natural good nature to keep them so.
It was true the money the fugitives had brought with them was ample
payment for the services performed, but when that was gone there seemed
little left to restrain the Bretons betraying them. In spite of the
proud boast of the Seigneur de Rohan--"Jamais Breton ne fit
trahison"--there was only too much likelihood that in a few days the
three fugitives would be delivered up to their enemies.
One day as they were sitting listlessly outside the cottage on a boulder
of granite, gazing wistfully at the sea sparkling among the innumerable
rocks which encumbered the large bay before them, the peasant woman came
out, and looking about her, approached the girl. After talking
earnestly for some time she went back to the house, and the girl turned
to her father with a face paler than usual.
"Father," she said, "we must get away at once. Marie says she has heard
men-at-arms are coming this evening, and we have but little time to
escape. She has given us warning at the peril of her life, so she says;
and there is an Englishman, she tells me, who has been asking about us
all round the country. He is a one-eyed young man, she says."
Ralph looked up. He had now heard of the treachery of Bowerman. He now
knew that the knight who had saved him was no other but Sir George
Lisle, and that the girl whose glove he had worn in the tournament was
Magdalen Lisle, niece of Yolande, and heiress to all the Lisle estates,
if only her father were restored to his proper position.
Magdalen had taken no pains to conceal her dislike of Bowerman, and her
pleasure on finding that her father no longer trusted him, and that he
equally shared her dislike, was very great. In the necessity of their
prompt escape from the battlefield, all examination of the dead was
precluded, and neither Sir George Lisle nor his daughter knew whether
Bowerman had survived. But now Marie told them of this Englishman, the
girl's fears were aroused. Bowerman had urged his suit with her father
during their intercourse in France, and Sir George Lisle had received
his advances very coldly, and Magdalen dreaded his finding them,
especially as her father's conduct in defending the wounded Captain of
the Wight must have been observed.
The danger was imminent. The little hut where they had taken refuge was
on the edge of a rocky bay not far from St Malo, but the intervening
country was scoured by the French troops, and escape by land was next to
impossible.
"We must go by sea," said Sir George. "There is Jean's old boat."
"But the tide is out, father! look where it is!" said Magdalen, pointing
in dismay to the long stretch of sand, strewn with boulders and piles of
sharp rocks protruding in all directions, while away on the edge of this
waste the sea was breaking on a reef of ugly points of granite, black
with the weather and time, and grinning like the teeth of some wild
animal, amid the foam and froth of the sea. It was too true; the tide
would not come in enough to float the clumsy boat before it would be
dark, and from what Marie said, the men-at-arms would be there before
dusk.
"We must try and push the boat down," said Sir George.
They went back to the hut, and searching in the shed where the few tools
belonging to the labourer were kept, Ralph found some spars that would
serve for rollers.
Sir George had taken the precaution, when they escaped under cover of
the darkness from the field of St Aubin, to bring his own armour and
that of Ralph Lisle with him. He had dismissed his servants, bidding
them shift for themselves, and the horses had been sold by Jean to
provide money for their expenses, and also to prevent suspicion arising,
if such animals were seen in the neighbourhood of his cottage.
Carrying to the boat the few effects they intended taking with them, and
hastily collecting such food as Marie could provide them with, the
fugitives went down the beach to where the boat lay. They anxiously
looked at her. It seemed utterly impossible they could move her. Ralph
was still very weak, and they soon found their fears were too true. They
could not possibly move it.
"'Twill be three hours yet before she floats," said Sir George.
"Any way, we can carry out the anchor as far as this warp will let us,"
said Ralph, "'twill give us greater help to pull her out, and here's an
old sail we can set all ready for the first lift of the tide. The wind
is right off the land."
Anything being better than standing still doing nothing, they set up the
mast, and got the old brown sail ready for hoisting. Everything was now
in, when Magdalen suddenly exclaimed,--
"Why, see how fast the tide is rising! It is already past that reef of
rocks there! It won't be nearly as long before she floats as we
thought."
The tide was indeed rising fast, and the distant reef of rocks had
disappeared entirely. A few jagged peaks were sticking up here and
there on some of the higher patches of rock, soon to be hidden by the
inrushing tide, leaving their sharp points a few feet below the surface,
with nothing to show their dangerous position.
The sun was setting over the low, sandy shore on the western side of the
bay. The long shadows of some of the strangely-shaped rocks stretched
far across the yellow sand, and the shrill cry of the sea-mew called to
its mate. In a few minutes more the sun would set, and the grey mist of
the sea would come creeping over the hot land from the cool ocean. The
tide had now reached the boat; the anchor was already covered.
"Get in Magdalen," said her father; "we will stay to push her off, if
may be."
Sir George and Ralph had both taken off their shoes, and, bare-legged,
were standing in the fast rising tide.
Suddenly Magdalen saw a shadow moving over the sand--she looked round.
"Oh father, there they are," she cried in horror.
*CHAPTER XXVIII.*
*HOW THE SEA MIST ROSE IN TERQUETE BAY.*
The startled cry of Magdalen called the attention of the others to the
shadows flitting over the sand.
There, against the red glory of the departed sun, were figures of
horsemen looming up on the dark line of jagged rocks which edged the
western sky.
"There are three, four, five--ay, a dozen or more, and they are coming
apace. Up with the sail, Ralph," cried Sir George Lisle, jumping into
the boat.
There was already a foot or more of water all round her, and the sea
spreading out over the flat sand made the boat look as if she were far
out in deep water.
The sail was run up the mast, and Ralph, still in the water, pushed with
all his might, while Sir George Lisle hauled hard at the warp.
"She's moving, she's moving," cried Magdalen, in an ecstasy of
excitement, jumping about, and trying to help with an oar. At the same
time, a fierce cry came over the water, and the distant sparkles on the
edge of the ripples told of a horseman having plunged into the sea.
"Push, push," cried Magdalen, "or they will be here after all."
They strained and tugged, but the boat would not move. The splashes
sounded nearer, the fierce cries became louder.
"Oh! oh! if only there were quicksands," cried Magdalen.
"There are," said her father. "The bay is full of them as the tide
rises."
"Sir George Lisle! Sir George Lisle!" called out a well-known voice.
"Your life is safe, and that of Mistress Lisle, if you attempt no
escape--and no escape is possible; but I cannot vouch for your safety if
you persist in trying to get away."
But the fugitives gave no answer.
"There she goes," gasped Ralph, as he strained more than ever with his
shoulder against the square stern of the ill-shaped boat.
"Oh, Ralph, you will do yourself a mischief," said Magdalen, "and you
hardly well yet from your illness."
The boat was moving, however. Sir George Lisle kept pulling in the
warp, and the sand was stirred up all round.
"Ah, what's that?" said Sir George, as something whizzed past him and
stuck in the sail. "Lie down, child, they are shooting from their
crossbows."
The splashes of the approaching horsemen seemed very close; one
especially was urging his horse to its utmost speed.
"'Tis Bowerman," said Magdalen despairingly.
But their boat was really moving now. Hand-over-hand the warp kept
coming in. The breeze off the shore came fresh and strong.
"Jump in, Ralph," cried Sir George.
With a last push and a violent leap, Ralph clambered over the stern, and
fell in a heap into the bottom of the boat.
"Thank the saints we are off," said the knight, as he pulled in the rude
anchor over the bows of the old boat, which was now rippling through the
water.
Ralph had picked himself up, and was looking astern at the splashing
figures of two or three men-at-arms who were still pressing on through
the shallow water.
"Aha, my friends, you'll have work enough to scour your harness after
this, but you won't--Marry, what's the matter!" he broke off in alarm,
as the sail came tumbling down on their heads.
"'Tis a quarrel hath cut the halyards," said Sir George in a smothered
voice, as he tried to disengage himself from the thick sail.
A loud shout of triumph from their pursuers told how near the enemy
were, and of their certainty of success.
"Not yet, my fine custrils," shouted Ralph, as he quickly climbed the
mast to reeve the broken end of the rope through the sheaf again. A
dangerous work, considering the excellence of the crossbow practice; and
so it proved, for had not Ralph put on his back and breast-pieces before
leaving the hut, he would have been mortally wounded, for one of the
bolts rattled against the cuirass like a hammer riveting iron.
"'Tis done, Messieurs, thank you," said Ralph, sliding down, and quickly
bending the rope on to the yard, the old sail was run up the mast again
amid a defiant cheer from Ralph and Magdalen.
"Look at them," said Ralph, "you can see them safely through that hole
in the gunwale. They are floundering along finely. Nay, my fine sir,
'tis not to your mind, I can see. Aha! 'tis best to go back. There they
go; they have given it up," and Ralph bust into a roar of derisive
laughter, in which Magdalene joined with her merry rippling voice.
One cavalier alone seemed loth to give up the chase.
The water had already risen up to the girths of his horse, but he kept
spurring the reluctant animal all the time.
"I will have thee yet," shouted the man-at-arms, through his visor, as
he shook his gauntleted hand at the boat. "Ralph Lisle, thou shall not
escape me this time.
"What! is it thou, Bowerman?" called back Sir George Lisle. "Nay, man,
get thee back before the sea swallow thee, and repent thee of thine evil
deeds and treachery ere it be too late. There are quicksands, man, and
the tide is rising apace. Thou gettest us not this time."
The grey mist of evening was rising all around. Out to sea a livid wall
of impalpable vapour was veiling the breaking crests of the waves as
they surged among the countless points of rock, whose sharp peaks
projected in bewildering danger on all sides. The breeze had died down,
and the brown sail flapped idly against the mast. The tide was still
only at half flood, and was sweeping into the bay.
"We must row," said Sir George. "Magdalen, do thou take the helm.
Steer between yonder black rocks."
[Illustration: "WE MUST ROW," SAID SIR GEORGE.]
The two men took the clumsy oars, and soon the swish and gurgle under
the bows told of the progress they were making. They had escaped.
Their pursuers could go no further. After rowing silently for about ten
minutes, Magdalen suddenly called out in perplexity,--
"Where are the rocks? I don't see them."
Sir George looked round. There was nothing to be seen but the bows of
the boat as she lifted over a longer swell than usual, or surged down
into the long trough of the heaving water. All else was grey,
indistinguishable gloom.
"'Tis the sea mist. We must have a-care, or we shall be on some of
these rocks," said Sir George.
They rested on their oars. Astern they could still see the dim figure
of the horseman, who was now urging his horse as hastily to land as he
had spurred it towards the boat. But the creeping mist was fast
pursuing him. Even now the yellow streak behind the purple shore was
becoming bleared and blotted, and the harsh voices of the troopers, as
they called to each other, or laughed at the struggles of their more
hardy comrades, came deadened by the thickening air across the shallow
water of the rock-strewn bay.
"I doubt if ever Bowerman will reach the land," said Sir George, after
looking at the dim speck which was now all but invisible in the gloom.
But their own situation called for all their wits. It was most important
that they should reach the head of the western point before the
horsemen, who would be sure to ride there, and perhaps get a boat from
the fishermen who lived in the bay round the promontory. The great
danger now lay in the innumerable rocks which lay all round. After
pulling for a few minutes, Magdalen called to them to stop. She was sure
there was a rock near. She had heard a sharp sound.
They all listened attentively. The surging of the sea under the bows
was all that they could hear.
"There! don't you hear it?" said Magdalen? as a sawing sound, sharp and
swishing, rose over the silence of the waves.
"'Tis the sea grinding against a sharp rock," said Sir George, "and 'tis
not far off. Can'st tell where it is, Ralph, thine ears are keener than
mine?"
Again they all listened. The boat had lost all way, and was lying still
in the glassy sea. All round was impenetrable gloom. It was not
absolutely dark. They could distinguish each other in the boat, but they
could see nothing, even an oar's-length away. All was grey, impalpable,
vague opacity.
The sound of the sea among the points of the rocks grew fainter.
"The tide is setting us in shore," said Sir George; "we must row again."
Just as they were about to take to their oars a shout came over the
water. It was a shout of terror, a blood-curdling shriek of agony.
Magdalen shivered.
"'Tis some of those men-at-arms; they have lost their way in the mist,
and the rising tide has overtaken them," said Ralph, and he began to
row, in order to deaden the noise, and distract the girl's attention.
But the cries became more piercing, they seemed to be nearer.
"We can't have turned round?" said Sir George. "Are we rowing ashore?"
They again paused. All was silent as the grave. The breeze seemed to
have got up a little. Their sail began to fill, and the water rippled
under the stern.
"This is getting parlous hazardous. I would we knew which way we are
going. Put thine oar over the side and see if thou cans't feel the
bottom," said Sir George Lisle.
But before Ralph could do what he was told, and while he was standing up
to fathom with the oar, there was a crash--a grinding, splintering
sound, and Ralph was thrown over the after-thwart into Magdalen's lap,
who gave a little scream and then sat still.
They well knew what had happened. It did not need the water, which was
fast rising in the boat, to tell them they had struck upon a rock, and
were rapidly filling with water.
All three were used to danger, and they did not lose their presence of
mind. Ralph, as soon as he had picked himself up, went forward and
looked over the side. He could just see a brown patch through the clear
water. He sounded with his oar. It was not more than six inches below
the surface. He called to Sir George Lisle to sound over the stern and
to their dismay they found that the oar could only just touch the bottom
when held at arm's length under the sea. The boat was fast filling, and
would soon slip off and sink in deep water. Without a moment's
hesitation Ralph jumped over on to the rock. He took out the anchor,
and wading as far as he could, he threw it out on the other side of the
rock, and was glad to see it sank some depth. Then going back, he
pulled as hard as he could on the warp, and thus prevented the chances
of the boat slipping off.
"If the tide doesn't rise any more, we are safe from drowning, anyway,"
said Ralph.
In order to prevent the stern settling down any more, they placed the
two oars upright on the rocks, as far out as they conveniently could,
and then lashed them to the gunwale.
"There! we have done all we can now," said Sir George.
And they sat silent and anxious, watching if the tide were rising any
more. They had been so busy with their work, that they had not noticed
the cries of distress that had been growing more and more desperate.
Suddenly they were startled by a gurgling sound quite close to them, a
few gasps, splashings, and a voice in agony calling for help.
The sudden sound, the words shrieked in English, the blood-curdling
struggles, quite upset Magdalen. She screamed and clung to her father.
They peered into the gloom and could see nothing. The sounds had ceased;
a gurgling sound only could be heard, and then all was quite still.
Ralph would have swum off in the direction of the sounds, but the knight
restrained him.
"You can do no good, and would never find him. He has sunk by this
time."
The silence of the night seemed doubly oppressive. The swell of the sea
rose over the sunken rock without breaking, and the old boat rose with
the heave, grinding on the sharp point which had pierced her planks, and
then settled down. They could not see that the tide was rising any
more, and Ralph made a couch for Magdalen with the old sail, and wrapped
her up under the lee of the bows, where she was well out of the night
air, and away from the water.
"It must be past high-water by now," said Sir George. "'Tis a mercy the
night is quiet. I marvel where we can be?"