“We shall never find the ship to-night, your honour,” said one of the sailors, hitching up his trousers.
“How know’st that, Ben Hatchway?” demanded the other sailor, who had just taken a good pull from the brandy-flask, and now thought that he could find any object. “His honour knows what we can do better than an old log-boat like thee, I should ween.”
“For the matter o’ that,” remarked Ben.—But here he paused, and, previous to explaining further, took a deep draught from the flask, which his comrade had just handed to him. Having thus recruited himself, he resumed:—“For the matter o’ that, Will Bowsprit, here’s his honour to the fore, and, as I was a-saying—beshrew my topsail!—I’ve been in the Portingales afore to-day; and, sink me! as I was a-say”—
“Why, look-ye!” interrupted Will Bowsprit; “an’ I leaves my old hull in that there Portugee fish-pond, look-ye! blow me to shivers, that’s all! Here’s your honour’s health! I’ll drink to young Master Don’s anon.”
“My lads, we must back to-night, at all hazards,” said Hildebrand. “Stand you to the boat; and when you hear ‘Boat ahoy!’ cried, give a holloa. Yonder light is the last towards the ship, and is almost in a line with the boat. That shall be my mark!”
As he ceased speaking, a vivid flash of lightning, of the kind called “forked,” struck through the darkness; and all “the artillery of heaven” burst forth overhead. The din among the black masses of shipping, in the river before them, which here opened into a noble bay (for it was too large to be called a basin), seemed to increase, yet the whistling of the wind and rain was heard above it. Hildebrand paused a moment: then, wrapping his cloak around him, he turned about, and led Don Rafaele towards the city.
A flight of steps brought them to a quay, whence they passed into a long, dirty street. Not a living creature was to be seen: nothing was to be seen, indeed, but the black houses, which gave forth no sign of being inhabited. After going along some distance, they came to another street, turning out of the main thoroughfare, in which they espied a light. Whispering Don Rafaele to be of good heart, and (for he had become very faint) helping him along with one hand, Hildebrand immediately made for the light, and shortly came up with it. As he had expected, it issued from the lower casement of a tavern, the outermost door of which, opening into a close passage, was fastened back, and thus invited whoever might be passing to enter.
On coming before the open door, Hildebrand paused, and turned to speak to his companion.
“Be of good cheer, Rafaele!” he said. “The storm favours us, and, methinks, we have no great cause for fear.”
“How can I be afeard when with thee?” answered Don Rafaele. “I fear nought, but I am grievously faint.”