“If we sink now it will be in deep water, so there is no need to fly up before we go down.”

“Go and see if she leaks,” said Hans.

They went and searched the forehold but could not find that the Swallow had taken any harm worth noting.  Indeed, her massive oaken prow, with the weight of the gale-driven ship behind it, had crashed through the frail sides of the open Spanish boat like a knife through an egg.

“That was good steering,” said Foy to Hans, when they returned, “and nothing seems to be amiss.”

Hans nodded.  “I hit him neatly,” he muttered.  “Look.  He’s gone.”  As he spoke the Swallow gave a sharp pitch, and the corpse of the Spaniard fell with a heavy splash into the sea.

“I am glad it has sunk,” said Foy; “and now let’s have some breakfast, for I am starving.  Shall I bring you some, friend Hans?”

“No, master, I want to sleep.”

Something in the tone of the man’s voice caused Foy to scrutinise his face.  His lips were turning blue.  He glanced at his hands.  Although they still grasped the tiller tightly, these also were turning blue, as though with cold; moreover, blood was dropping on the deck.

“You are hit,” he said.  “Martin, Martin, Hans is hit!”

“Yes,” replied the man, “he hit me and I hit him, and perhaps presently we shall be talking it over together.  No, don’t trouble, it is through the body and mortal.  Well, I expected nothing less, so I can’t complain.  Now, listen, while my strength holds.  Can you lay a course for Harwich in England?”

Martin and Foy shook their heads.  Like most Hollanders they were good sailormen, but they only knew their own coasts.

“Then you had best not try it,” said Hans, “for there is a gale brewing, and you will be driven on the Goodwin Sands, or somewhere down that shore, and drowned and the treasure lost.  Run up to the Haarlem Mere, comrades.  You can hug the land with this small boat, while that big devil after you,” and he nodded towards the pursuing vessel, which by now was crossing the bar, “must stand further out beyond the shoals.  Then slip up through the small gut—­the ruined farmstead marks it—­and so into the mere.  You know Mother Martha, the mad woman who is nicknamed the Mare?  She will be watching at the mouth of it; she always is.  Moreover, I caused her to be warned that we might pass her way, and if you hoist the white flag with a red cross—­it lies in the locker—­or, after nightfall, hang out four lamps upon your starboard side, she will come aboard to pilot you, for she knows this boat well.  To her also you can tell your business without fear, for she will help you, and be as secret as the dead.  Then bury the treasure, or sink it, or blow it up, or do what you can, but, in the name of God, to whom I go, I charge you do not let it fall into the hands of Ramiro and his Spanish rats who are at your heels.”

As Hans spoke he sank down upon the deck.  Foy ran to support him, but he pushed him aside with a feeble hand.  “Let me be,” he whispered.  “I wish to pray.  I have set you a course.  Follow it to the end.”