The sailing boat drew on. In the stern-sheets of it sat Ramiro, an open paper, which he was studying, upon his knee, and still slung about his body the great sword Silence.
“Before I am half an hour older,” reflected Martin, for even now he did not like to trust his thoughts to Adrian, “either I will have that sword back again, or I shall be a dead man. But the odds are great, eleven of them, all tough fellows, and we but three and two women.”
Just then Ramiro’s voice reached them across the stillness of the water.
“Down with the sail,” he cried cheerily, “for without a doubt that is the place—there are the six islets in a line, there in front the other island shaped like a herring, and there the little promontory marked ‘landing place.’ How well this artist draws to be sure!”
The rest of his remarks were lost in the creaking of the blocks as the sail came down.
“Shallow water ahead, Señor,” said a man in the bows sounding with a boat hook.
“Good,” answered Ramiro, throwing out the little anchor, “we will wade ashore.”
As he spoke the Spanish soldier with the boat-hook suddenly pitched head first into the water, a quarrel from Adrian’s crossbow through his heart.
“Ah!” said Ramiro, “so they are here before us. Well, there can’t be many of them. Now then, prepare to land.”
Another quarrel whistled through the air and stuck in the mast, doing no hurt. After this no more bolts came, for in his eagerness Adrian had broken the mechanism of the bow by over-winding it, so that it became useless. They leaped into the water, Ramiro with them, and charged for the land, when of a sudden, almost at the tip of the little promontory, from among the reeds rose the gigantic shape of Red Martin, clad in his tattered jerkin and bearing in his hand a heavy axe, while behind him appeared Foy and Adrian.