“Give him more wine, Will; his eyes are opening.”
“Hey day?” said Amyas, faintly, “not past the Shutter yet! How long she hangs in the wind!”
“We are long past the Shutter, Sir Amyas,” said Brimblecombe.
“Are you mad? Cannot I trust my own eyes?”
There was no answer for awhile.
“We are past the Shutter, indeed,” said Cary, very gently, “and lying in the cove at Lundy.”
“Will you tell me that that is not the Shutter, and that the Devil's-limekiln, and that the cliff—that villain Spaniard only gone—and that Yeo is not standing here by me, and Cary there forward, and—why, by the by, where are you, Jack Brimblecombe, who were talking to me this minute?”
“Oh, Sir Amyas Leigh, dear Sir Amyas Leigh,” blubbered poor Jack, “put out your hand, and feel where you are, and pray the Lord to forgive you for your wilfulness!”
A great trembling fell upon Amyas Leigh; half fearfully he put out his hand; he felt that he was in his hammock, with the deck beams close above his head. The vision which had been left upon his eye-balls vanished like a dream.
“What is this? I must be asleep? What has happened? Where am I?”