“Well, they are here now at any rate,” answered Foy, “and plenty of them,” he added, as a shout from a score of throats told them that they were discovered.

But now the Swallow had begun to fly, making the water hiss upon either side of her bows.

“How far is it to the sea?” asked Foy.

“About three miles,” Hans called back from the tiller.  “With this wind we should be there in fifteen minutes.  Master,” he added presently, “bid your man light the fire in the galley.”

“What for,” asked Foy, “to cook breakfast?”

The pilot shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Yes, if we live to eat it.”  But Foy saw that he was glancing at the slow-match by his side, and understood.

Ten minutes passed, and they had swept round the last bend and were in the stretch of open water which ran down to the sea.  By now the light was strong, and in it they saw that the signal fire had not been lit in vain.  At the mouth of the cutting, just where the bar began, the channel was narrowed in with earth to a width of not more than fifty paces, and on one bank of it stood a foot armed with culverins.  Out of the little harbour of this fort a large open boat was being poled, and in it a dozen or fifteen soldiers were hastily arming themselves.

“What now?” cried Martin.  “They are going to stop the mouth of the channel.”

The hard-featured Hans set his teeth and made no answer.  Only he looked backward at his pursuers and onward at those who barred the way.  Presently he called aloud: 

“Under hatches, both of you.  They are going to fire from the fort,” and he flung himself upon his back, steering with his uplifted arms.

Foy and Martin tumbled down the hatchway, for they could do no good on deck.  Only Foy kept one eye above its level.

“Look out!” he said, and ducked.

As he spoke there was a puff of white smoke from the fort, followed by the scream of a shot which passed ahead of them.  Then came another puff of smoke, and a hole appeared in their brown sail.  After this the fort did not fire again, for the gunners found no time to load their pieces, only some soldiers who were armed with arquebuses began to shoot as the boat swept past within a few yards of them.  Heedless of their bullets, Hans the pilot rose to his feet again, for such work as was before him could not be done by a man lying on his back.  By now the large open boat from the fort was within two hundred yards of them, and, driven by the gathering pale, the Swallow rushed towards it with the speed of a dart.  Foy and Martin crawled from the hatchway and lay down near the steersman under the shelter of the little bulwarks, watching the enemy’s boat, which was in midstream just where the channel was narrowest, and on the hither side of the broken water of the bar.

“See,” said Foy, “they are throwing out anchors fore and aft.  Is there room to go past them?”