“Look,” said Miss Bishop, pointing; and to his infinite amazement he observed that her eyes were sparkling.  Did she realize, he wondered, what was afoot?  Her next sentence resolved his doubt.  “She is English, and she comes resolutely on.  She means to fight.”

“God help her, then,” said his lordship gloomily.  “Her captain must be mad.  What can he hope to do against two such heavy hulks as these?  If they could so easily blow the Royal Mary out of the water, what will they do to this vessel?  Look at that devil Don Miguel.  He’s utterly disgusting in his glee.”

From the quarter-deck, where he moved amid the frenzy of preparation, the Admiral had turned to flash a backward glance at his prisoners.  His eyes were alight, his face transfigured.  He flung out an arm to point to the advancing ship, and bawled something in Spanish that was lost to them in the noise of the labouring crew.

They advanced to the poop-rail, and watched the bustle.  Telescope in hand on the quarter-deck, Don Miguel was issuing his orders.  Already the gunners were kindling their matches; sailors were aloft, taking in sail; others were spreading a stout rope net above the waist, as a protection against falling spars.  And meanwhile Don Miguel had been signalling to his consort, in response to which the Hidalga had drawn steadily forward until she was now abeam of the Milagrosa, half cable’s length to starboard, and from the height of the tall poop my lord and Miss Bishop could see her own bustle of preparation.  And they could discern signs of it now aboard the advancing English ship as well.  She was furling tops and mainsail, stripping in fact to mizzen and sprit for the coming action.  Thus, almost silently without challenge or exchange of signals, had action been mutually determined.

Of necessity now, under diminished sail, the advance of the Arabella was slower; but it was none the less steady.  She was already within saker shot, and they could make out the figures stirring on her forecastle and the brass guns gleaming on her prow.  The gunners of the Milagrosa raised their linstocks and blew upon their smouldering matches, looking up impatiently at the Admiral.

But the Admiral solemnly shook his head.

“Patience,” he exhorted them.  “Save your fire until we have him.  He is coming straight to his doom — straight to the yardarm and the rope that have been so long waiting for him.”

“Stab me!” said his lordship.  “This Englishman may be gallant enough to accept battle against such odds.  But there are times when discretion is a better quality than gallantry in a commander.”

“Gallantry will often win through, even against overwhelming strength,” said Miss Bishop.  He looked at her, and noted in her bearing only excitement.  Of fear he could still discern no trace.  His lordship was past amazement.  She was not by any means the kind of woman to which life had accustomed him.