It ceased, and there was silence—for no sound of cannonading came from the ships at sea.
The small man passed his gaze along the line; then “Fire!” cried he.
There was a crash and a roar. To me it seemed the very earth did split, and quake and stagger. Stunned, I fell to the ground.
The Doctor himself raised me up, and, “See! See!” cried he, pointing out beneath the lifting cannon-smoke, “a curse is fallen upon the wolves! They die! they die! They go down! down! There shall not a one of them escape!”
The ship that had been pursued sailed slowly in, and I could see the men crowding in the bows, waving scarfs to us, and, doubtless, cheering. But of the other craft, there remained but a confused wrack driving in the waves, swarmed over with struggling seamen, as with rats.
I turned from the spectacle, sick at heart. I knew not, and I know not to this day, what the murdered men were—whether pirates or honest merchantmen; but the fact of that disaster smote upon me like a private calamity.
I returned to the Cells; and, contriving this time to open the door, passed within and made my way to Ambrose’s chamber.
The poor man sat as I had left him, sunk into a dull dejection, so that he scarce took any notice of my entering in. I told him what had befallen; but he merely said:
“That’s the Vandal, I suppose, come home.”
“She had a stormy home-coming then,” said I.