"Thank you, hombre," as she snuggled down on the improvised bed.
"We usually have aguardiente, but none's left in the locker this trip. Only by chance did we have that coat you're wearing."
"I'm very comfortable, I shall be as warm as if I were at home in my own room," she laughed. "Thank you, again, very, very much."
"These summer nights pass quickly. It is morning before we know."
Hers was the sleep of exhaustion.
The rattle of oars in rowlocks awakened her. The men were no longer merely holding to the wind, but were pulling vigorously. She felt the boat urge forward with each stroke. She raised herself a little and looked over the gunwale. There was darkness everywhere, save when the starlight flashed thinly on some wave-roof.
"A good part of the night is spent, lady," the father said. "The currents begin to run as usual, now that the storm is past. I'm beating to the windward of your ships. You may as well go back to sleep."
After two hours or so he called to her. "Which ship is it that you want, señora?"
She looked about. Morning had come.
"Ah! the reenforcements are here," to herself. "Our Admiral has now eleven men-of-war." Then to the boatman: "That vessel on the left, the large one flying two flags. Sabe?"