Riddell was only half satisfied.  His creed evidently was that a sailor’s first duty is to his own ship; but neither he nor any one else ever argued with Guy.  “As you like, sir,” he grumbled, somewhat discontentedly.  “Keep her full, Saunders; we shall fetch them so.”

If a stitch of sail had been taken off our vessel she could never have reached the barca, though her crew strove hard to meet us.  She forged down slowly enough as it was, but we were just in time to take them on board.

“Reef every thing now!” Riddell shouted, leaping himself first into the rigging like a wild-cat.  “Cheerily, men—­with a will!” All his ill-humor was gone when the peril became imminent.

We were strong-handed, and the four Capriotes did us seaman’s service; but it was “touch and go.”  The last man had scarcely reached the deck when the line of foam was within half-cable’s length.  Then there came a sound unlike any I had ever heard before in the elements, beginning with a whistling sort of scream and deepening into a roar as of many angry voices, bestial and human, striving for the mastery; and then the Petrel staggered and reeled over almost on her beam-ends, in the midst of a white boiling caldron of mad water.  She recovered herself, however, quickly, quivering and trembling as a live creature might do after severe punishment; and we drove on, the strong arms at the wheel keeping her well before the blast.  In a very few minutes, I suppose (though it seemed very long), I heard old Riddell say, “Sharp while it lasted, Mr. Livingstone; but they’re right to call it a squall.  They’ve nothing down here-away like a good right down hard gale.”

I looked up, clearing my eyes, blinded with the hissing spray, just as Guy answered, coolly as ever.  He had run his arm through a becket, and did not seem to have moved otherwise, whereas I disgraced myself by falling at full length as the squall struck us.

“Ah! you’ve got difficult to please; it’s always so when one sees so much of life.  Never mind, Riddell, the Mediterranean does its best, and perhaps we’ll go and try your tornadoes some day.  Where’s the barca now?”

Where?  The eyes that could have told you that must have looked a hundred fathoms deep.  There was not the faintest vestige of such a thing to be seen—­not even a shivered plank.  The poor Capriotes’ “bread-winner” had gone the way of Antonio’s argosies—­another whet to the all-devouring appetite, for which nothing that swims is too large or too small.

It was almost calm again when we landed the rescued men at Salerno; we were glad to get rid of them, for their gratitude was overpowering, especially as all the salt water that had soaked them could not disguise the savor of their favorite herb.

You may break, you may ruin the clay if you will, but the scent of the garlic will cling to it still.

Guy gave them enough to buy two such boats as they had lost—­about as much as one wins or loses in an evening’s whist, with fair luck and half-crown points.