Again, however--this time late at night--the elements changed, the mist and fog thinned somewhat and rose some feet from the surface of the now almost tranquil sea; it was at last possible to look ahead somewhat, though not possible to proceed, even if the light wind which blew beneath the fog would have taken us the way we desired to go.
And still the mist cleared so that we could see a mile--or two miles--around, and then we observed a sight that none of us could comprehend, not even Cuddiford, who whispered once to himself, though I heard him plain enough, "What in the name of the devil does it mean? What? What?"
Afar off, on our starboard quarter, we saw in the darkness of the night--there was no moon--innumerable lights dotting the sea; long lines of light such as tiers of ports will emit from ships, also lights higher up, as though on mastheads and yards--numbers of them, some scores each in their cluster.
Cuddiford's voice sounded in my ear. Cuddiford's finger was laid on my arm.
"You understand?" he asked.
"No."
"'Tis some great fleet."
I started--hardly could I repress that start or prevent myself from exclaiming: "The English fleet for Cadiz!"
Yet even as I did so, the water rippled on the bows where we were standing. It sounded as if those ripples blended with the man's voice and made a chuckling laugh.
"A large fleet," he said slowly, "leaving Spain and making for the open."