“What is it?” said he—“a sail? Yes: there is one—three—four!”
“There are seven,” said Toussaint.
Long did he gaze through the glass at these seven sail; and then he reported an eighth. At this moment his arm was grasped.
“See! see!” cried Christophe, who was looking southwards.
From behind the distant south-eastern promontory Del Euganno, now appeared, sail after sail, to the number of twenty.
“All French,” observed Christophe. “Lend me the glass.”
“All French,” replied his friend. “They are, no doubt, coming to rendezvous at this point.”
While Henri explored those which were nearest, Toussaint leaned on his folded arms against the bank of broken ground before him, straining his eyes over the now-peopled sea.
“More! More!” he exclaimed, as the sun appeared, and the new gush of light showed sail upon sail, as small specks upon the horizon line. He snatched the glass; and neither he nor Henri spoke for long.
The east wind served the purposes of the vast fleet, whose three detachments, once within each other’s view, rapidly converged, showing that it was indeed their object to rendezvous at Cap Samana. Silent, swift, and most fair (as is the wont of evil) was this form of destruction in its approach.