And—there again! far away, poised between sky and sea, that glimmer of pearls.
It was some tall ship standing across the bay, the sun making glory on her royals.
"Make her out?"
"Yes, sir. She's a frigate right enough—can't be anything else with that height of canvas."
For in those dark days there was little business on the narrow seas other than the business of war. For weeks together the Channel waters were virgin of merchant-men. Trading bottoms dared not venture. Majestic three-deckers and tall frigates paced the seas alone. Anon a privateer swooped. Then a black smuggler scuttled from shore to shore between twilights. Rarely a vast convoy, herded like sheep, drove by, the dogs of war barking at the laggards. For the rest naked waters, ship-forsaken.
"It's the Medusa" said the Parson deliberately. "How soon'll she be off here, think you, sailor-boy?"
"I hardly know, sir. With this breeze I should think she might be abreast of us in two hours, and round the Head in four."
"And into the trap in five," mused the Parson.
"And Nelson bandaged, his back to the wall, facing a French firing party—all at about six o'clock of a sweet summer evening, August 22nd, the year of Our Lord, 1805."
He began to whistle meditatively.