One ball splintered the mizenmast near Sir Andrew, and another stretched Cuddie Clewline, his coxswain, on the deck.
"My poor Cuddie," said he, rushing forward; "how art thou, old shipmate?"
"Ill enough, Sir Andrew," groaned the seaman, from the sleeve of whose doublet the blood was gushing; "my best spar is knocked away."
"Poor carle—thy right arm?" said Barton.
"Never fear ye for me, sirs, I'll weather the gale yet," he answered, as he crawled along the deck, leaving a long trail of blood, till he reached the main hatchway, where Father Zuill, relinquishing an immense parabolic speculum, received him in his arms, and conveyed him below.
"Hollo! Saints and angels, what clattering is that?" he asked, as a heavy shot tore its way between decks.
"An English bullet through the magazine," said some one.
"Damnation," cried Wad, plunging down the ladder to ascertain the damage.
"Peace," said the chaplain; "swear not, friend gunner; it is forbidden."
"The shot is through thy laboratory, Father Zuill," said the boatswain, ascending; "and if it hasna smashed your hurdy-gurdy to flinders, may I never mair see Anster kirk!"