"Didst make out their colours?"
"They have none hoisted as yet; but by St. Andrew, they are war-ships, or I have the eyes of a mole!"
"They may be English——"
"Or Portuguese caravels on some roving commission; but both are alike dangerous. To be forewarned is to be forearmed."
"Right," said the admiral; "so beat the starboard watch to quarters; Willie Wad, out with all lights, and open the magazine! To your armour, gentlemen; Sir David Falconer, order your trumpeter to sound, and line the poop with arquebussiers."
"That puff of smoke," said Falconer, as he buckled on his splendid baldrick, "is very like the discharge of a culverin."
And such it was, being the death-knell of Jamie Gair, the unfortunate fisherman.
As the vessels neared each other, the two Scottish caravels were cleared for action, and every man armed himself; the cannon was served with shot and powder; the arquebussiers manned the tops and taffrails; the cannoniers stood by their guns, with tackle, sponge, and rammer; the lines were laid along the deck, and the ports were triced up.
"By my soul, Robert Barton," said the admiral, as he scanned the strangers; "I think I should know the hull of yonder craft and the rake of her masts. Gadzooks! look at her now, as her sails lift in the breeze."
"And the fashion of her topsails, too," said Barton, observing her with kindling eyes, and a darkening brow.