"'Tis the Carolina!" I exclaimed, "'tis the Carolina!"
"Oh! the blessed, blessed English ship!" sobbed the good dame.
Then all energies were bent to reach her, for it was plain that she was making ready to leave her anchorage.
"If we could only signal to those on board!" I cried. "Loose your neck-kerchief, Barbara, and wave it—wave it in the sunlight!"
"We are too close to the shore," the padre said. "She can scarce distinguish us until we strike out into the open."
"But how plainly we can perceive her crew! And see the stir upon the decks—are they not drawing up the anchor? Oh, Padre Felipe!" I cried piteously, "wave to them! signal them! or they will leave us after all!"
The friar rose carefully to his feet; he, too, was heartily glad of this chance to be rid of his charges, and in no mind to let it slip by. With Barbara's white kerchief in his hand he was about to make another effort to attract the notice of the Carolina, when suddenly he glanced over his shoulder toward the land, his hand fell quickly to his side, and he dropped back into his seat with an exclamation of dismay.
One of the Indians rose immediately, and with shaded eyes gazed along the beach as it stretched away southward to San Augustin. He gave a grunt of acquiescence and sat down, and the motion of the paddles ceased.
"What have you seen?" I cried in agony, struggling also to my feet.
We were so near the river's mouth—almost upon the blue waves of the ocean rolling out to the shining east! Under the lee of the northern shore lay the English ship; and south of us the coast spun out its gleaming line of sandy beach away, away back to the prison we had left. But what were those dark forms that swarmed the sands?