In a moment he was at the loop-hole, peering over the old man's shoulder.
On these in the sunshine he saw the brown-patched sails of the privateer lifted ladder-like from behind the shingle-bank, and strangely close. Then her bows slid into view, and he realised that she was standing out to sea:
The boy's heart soared.
They were free!
A great hand pulled him gently back from the loop-hole.
"By your leave, sir. They've a marksman on the knoll keeps on a-peckin at us."
The boy's heart sank.
"Then we aren't free?"
"Oh, no, sir. All round us, sir—a cord on em, Muster Joy calls it, soldier-fashion."
From above the Parson's cheery voice rang out.