They were of unusual length, and black—­at any rate, seen against that golden haze, they appeared black as Erebus.  In the bows of each sat a company of people singing as they pulled at the long oars; and in the stern of each, divided from the rowers by the cargo—­but what that cargo was could not yet be distinguished—­stood a solitary steersman.

Patently these people were unaware of the steamer’s approach.  They were heading straight across her path—­were, in fact, dangerously close—­when at length the seaman on the bridge recovered presence of mind to sound her whistle, at the same time ringing down to stop the engines.

As the whistle sounded the singing ceased abruptly, the steersmen thrust over their tillers in a flurry, and of the rowers some were still backing water as the boats drifted close, escaping collision by a few yards.

“Ahoy there!”

“Ahoy!” came the answer.  “Who are you?”

“The Evan Evans, of Cardiff,” responded the skipper between his hollowed palms.

“Whither bound?”

“Cardiff.”

The foremost boat was close now and drifting alongside.  Arthur Miles and Tilda stared down upon the faces of the rowers.  They were eight or ten, and young for the most part—­young men of healthy brown complexions and maidens in sun-bonnets; and they laughed, with upturned eyes, as they fell to their oars again to keep pace with the steamer’s slackening way.  The children now discerned what cargo the boats carried—­each a score or two of sheep, alive and bleating, their fleeces all golden in the strange light.

An old man stood in the stern of the leading boat.  He wore a long white beard, and his face was extraordinarily gentle.  It was he who answered the skipper.

“For Cardiff?” he echoed.

“Aye, the Evan Evans, of Cardiff, an’ thither bound.  Maybe you’ve heard of him,” added the skipper irrelevantly.  “A well-known Temperance Reformer he was.”

The old steersman shook his head.

“You’re miles away out o’ your course, then—­five an’ twenty miles good.”

“Where are we?”

“Right south-west—­atween Holmness and the land.  You’ve overshot everything.  Why, man, are ye all mazed aboard?  Never a vessel comes hereabouts, and ’tis the Lord’s mercy you han’t run her ashore.”

“The Lord will provide,” answered the skipper piously, “Which-a-way lies Cardiff, say you?”

The old man pointed.  But while he pointed Tilda ran forward.

“’Olmness?  Is it ’Olmness?”

He stared up.

“Holmness it is, missie?  But why?”

“An’ you’ll take us off?  We’re ’ere with a message.  It’s for Miles Chandon, if you know ’im.”

“Surely,” the old man answered slowly.  “Yes, surely—­Sir Miles.  But who can have a message for Sir Miles?”

“For Miss Sally, then.  You know Miss Sally?”