Borthwick, who had repeatedly begged to be placed ashore, but in vain, was now roughly removed, and poor Jamie Gair, with his legs stiff by four days' and nights' retention in fetter-locks, was brought before Sir Stephen Bull, around whom all his officers and gentlemen volunteers were crowding, with kindling eyes and open ears.
"Wouldst thou know the ships of Sir Andrew Wood, sirrah?" asked Sir Stephen, whose pages were arming him in a brilliant coat of mail.
"Weel as I wad ken the dear face o' my ain wife!" replied the prisoner, with ardour and sadness.
"Never mind thy wife's face, Scot; but answer me."
"So far an honest man may, I will, sir."
"Then, are these his vessels—away there to windward?"
Gair looked there for a moment; his eyes flashed and his cheek reddened; but he hung his head with an emotion which did not escape the keen and penetrating eyes of the English captain.
"Speak, sirrah!" said he, imperiously, as he grasped his poniard.
"They are hull down, sir."
"Well, but ye may know the trim of his sails, and the fashion of his gear aloft."