There was a gallant ship outside the bar.  She was running in, too, with all sails set.  A large ship; nearly a thousand tons she might be; but not of English rig.  What was the meaning of it?  A Spanish cruiser about to make reprisals for Drake’s raid along the Cadiz shore!  Not that, surely.  The Don had no fancy for such unscientific and dare-devil warfare.  If he came, he would come with admiral, rear-admiral, and vice-admiral, transports, and avisos, according to the best-approved methods, articles, and science of war.  What could she be?

Easily, on the flowing tide and fair western wind, she has slipped up the channel between the two lines of sandhill.  She is almost off Appledore now.  She is no enemy; and if she be a foreigner, she is a daring one, for she has never veiled her topsails,—­and that, all know, every foreign ship must do within sight of an English port, or stand the chance of war; as the Spanish admiral found, who many a year since was sent in time of peace to fetch home from Flanders Anne of Austria, Philip the Second’s last wife.

For in his pride he sailed into Plymouth Sound without veiling topsails, or lowering the flag of Spain.  Whereon, like lion from his den, out rushed John Hawkins the port admiral, in his famous Jesus of Lubec (afterwards lost in the San Juan d’Ulloa fight), and without argument or parley, sent a shot between the admiral’s masts; which not producing the desired effect, alongside ran bold Captain John, and with his next shot, so says his son, an eye-witness, “lackt the admiral through and through;” whereon down came the offending flag; and due apologies were made, but not accepted for a long time by the stout guardian of her majesty’s honor.  And if John Hawkins did as much for a Spanish fleet in time of peace, there is more than one old sea-dog in Appledore who will do as much for a single ship in time of war, if he can find even an iron pot to burn powder withal.

The strange sail passed out of sight behind the hill of Appledore; and then there rose into the quiet evening air a cheer, as from a hundred throats.  Mrs. Leigh stood still, and listened.  Another gun thundered among the hills; and then another cheer.

It might have been twenty minutes before the vessel hove in sight again round the dark rocks of the Hubbastone, as she turned up the Bideford river.  Mrs. Leigh had stood that whole time perfectly motionless, a pale and scarcely breathing statue, her eyes fixed upon the Viking’s rock.

Round the Hubbastone she came at last.  There was music on board, drums and fifes, shawms and trumpets, which wakened ringing echoes from every knoll of wood and slab of slate.  And as she opened full on Burrough House, another cheer burst from her crew, and rolled up to the hills from off the silver waters far below, full a mile away.

Mrs. Leigh walked quickly toward the house, and called her maid,—­

“Grace, bring me my hood.  Master Amyas is come home!”