"What's that? What's that?" demanded Messer Nicholas.
He ran to the larboard rail and peered under the edge of the great square-sail on the mizzen-mast.
"Oh, 'tis the galley," he said carelessly. "But what does the fellow on this course? He makes back for Hastings." Of a sudden his face went ashen grey. "The Red Crescent! By Our Lady, a Saracen corsair in the Narrow Seas!"
He wept and wrung his hands.
"Oh, lords, I never thought to see this! And there is great store of wealth in the hold. What shall I do? I am a peaceful shipman, and yon varlets will have me at their mercy. What shall I do?"
"Put your ship in order for defence," directed Hugh. "St. James, man, are you sunk before you are come to battle?"
"Take advantage of this wind," suggested Matteo. "Bear away, so that you have them over your stern."
A flicker of hope lighted the shipman's face, and he bellowed an order to the sailor at the tiller. The cog heeled and bore off across the wind, as it were. The galley was plainly revealed by this manoeuvre to the comrades on the poop. The lean, slender craft, half as long again as the cog, but less than half as high out of the water, raced along, with foaming oars. Steel flashed on fore and stern castles and amongst the rowers. From her mast floated the dreaded ensign of the Moslem rovers.
"He gains on us still," whined Messer Nicholas. "We shall be butchered like sheep."
"Ay, and you bestir not yourself to give the Paynims a warm greeting," returned Matteo.