“We will have it, Amyas, and have Frank too, yet,” cried Cary; but Amyas shook his head.  He knew, and knew not why he knew, that all the ports in New Spain would never restore to him that one beloved face.

“Yes, he shall be well avenged.  And look there!  There is the first crop of our vengeance.  And he pointed toward the shore, where between them and the now distant peaks of the Silla, three sails appeared, not five miles to windward.

“There are the Spanish bloodhounds on our heels, the same ships which we saw yesterday off Guayra.  Back, lads, and welcome them, if they were a dozen.”

There was a murmur of applause from all around; and if any young heart sank for a moment at the prospect of fighting three ships at once, it was awed into silence by the cheer which rose from all the older men, and by Salvation Yeo’s stentorian voice.

“If there were a dozen, the Lord is with us, who has said, ’One of you shall chase a thousand.’  Clear away, lads, and see the glory of the Lord this day.”

“Amen!” cried Cary; and the ship was kept still closer to the wind.

Amyas had revived at the sight of battle.  He no longer felt his wounds, or his great sorrow; even Frank’s last angel’s look grew dimmer every moment as he bustled about the deck; and ere a quarter of an hour had passed, his voice cried firmly and cheerfully as of old—­

“Now, my masters, let us serve God, and then to breakfast, and after that clear for action.”

Jack Brimblecombe read the daily prayers, and the prayers before a fight at sea, and his honest voice trembled, as, in the Prayer for all Conditions of Men (in spite of Amyas’s despair), he added, “and especially for our dear brother Mr. Francis Leigh, perhaps captive among the idolaters;” and so they rose.

“Now, then,” said Amyas, “to breakfast.  A Frenchman fights best fasting, a Dutchman drunk, an Englishman full, and a Spaniard when the devil is in him, and that’s always.”

“And good beef and the good cause are a match for the devil,” said Cary.  “Come down, captain; you must eat too.”

Amyas shook his head, took the tiller from the steersman, and bade him go below and fill himself.  Will Cary went down, and returned in five minutes, with a plate of bread and beef, and a great jack of ale, coaxed them down Amyas’s throat, as a nurse does with a child, and then scuttled below again with tears hopping down his face.

Amyas stood still steering.  His face was grown seven years older in the last night.  A terrible set calm was on him.  Woe to the man who came across him that day!

“There are three of them, you see, my masters,” said he, as the crew came on deck again.  “A big ship forward, and two galleys astern of her.  The big ship may keep; she is a race ship, and if we can but recover the wind of her, we will see whether our height is not a match for her length.  We must give her the slip, and take the galleys first.”