All this while they were running before a powerful wind, sail and water ablaze with crimson, the same red glow splashing their faces and their hands, and touching with magic all the level shores. A bottle was hurled into the scuppers, crashed into fragments; and triumphantly the breeze hummed through the straining cordage.
It struck Peter that sunset was a good time for lunch.
“Hullo! here are the mortal remains of the wild-duck paste.” And they both laughed, thinking of the immortal remains, bearing fruit in Aureole’s heart.
“Not that I think wild ducks do bear fruit as a rule; too reminiscent of a hen laying a melon. Peter, unless you are playing at Tantalus, or rather the gods who tantalized Tantalus, you might hold the bread a few inches nearer my lips.”
Passing St. Bennetts, the wind dropped somewhat, the clouds piled themselves out of sight, and the sky paled to a lake of clear light green wherein the round red ball of the sun hung motionless, striped by the darkening reeds.
Stuart hailed a cabin-boat with seven men on board, all lustily singing.
“Hi! what’s the time?—excuse me, Peter, but it had to be done.”
“Half-past six,” they wove their reply into the strains of ‘John Peel.’
“We shall make it, easily, and with half an hour to spare, wind or no wind.”
Peter looked enquiring.