Jamie thought of Mary and of their babe—of the broken ring—of the lost nets, and of his older friend's foreboding, and their present danger; and, while his strong heart swelled with agony, his iron hands grasped the wet tiller, and kept the lug-sail full.
On, on flew the sharp boat before that furious wind; and now faint lights were seen to twinkle amid the darkness and the flying scud to starboard; then the poor Scottish fishermen, while tears of hope and reliance mingled with the bitter spray that drenched their faces, put their trust in God and St. Andrew, and a hope arose that all might yet go well; for those lights were twinkling in the aisles of that glorious cathedral church upon the promontory—the work of a hundred and fifty years; and their prayers were heard; for morning came, and still their boat was sea-worthy, and as the dawn brightened, both sea and wind went down; the water was covered with foam—but not a trace was seen of that little fleet, among which they had shot their nets over-night.
As the sun rose through a hazy veil of vapour, Jamie found the Isle of May lying right a-head, and discovered that he had been blown far past Fife-ness, for now the distant spire of Crail and the faint blue Craig of Kilmeinie were gilded by the rising beams; and, now that all danger of being drowned was past, Jamie thought bitterly of his losses over-night.
Toil-worn and disappointed, the two fishermen were about to haul up for the shore and run into Crail Harbour, when the sudden apparition of three large vessels, under easy sail, bearing straight towards them, from under the lee of the Isle of May, where doubtless they had lain secure all night at anchor, arrested their attention; for at a glance Gair and John o' Buddon-ness perceived they were English ships, heavily armed and full of men.
These vessels were little more than a mile distant, and the fishermen knew that a run of four miles would bring them into the nearest harbour, where their boat—their little all—would be safe. The time was one of truce between the two countries; but recent events had proved that the warlike skippers of King Henry were not over-particular in respecting strangers at sea.
The breeze was still fresh and keen; the fishers stepped their mast, hoisted so much of their lug-sail as they dared, and, favoured by a side wind, bore away for Crail; but one of the English caravels followed them, and only a short time elapsed before a puff of smoke curled from her bows, and a cannon-shot boomed over the water close by, and plunging into the slope of a wave, raised it like a spout ahead of the boat.
"Ablins, they lack a pilot, Jamie," said John o' the Buddon-ness; "let us lie-to; they canna' hae the hearts to harm twa puir dyvour shields like you and me."
"May my een melt in their sockets when I undertake to pilot an Englishman!" said Jamie; "but by my certie, here comes another shot—douk doon, John, douk doon!"
This time it was the ball of an arquebuse, levelled through an iron sling attached to the ratlins.
The warning words had scarcely left Jamie's lips before the boat yawed round furiously, and his poor old companion fell dead across the thwart, for the same bullet that cut the halyard had pierced his heart, and in another minute the startled Gair found the English ship cleaving the billows close by him, and her hull towering from the sea as her mainyard was backed, and she lay to.