“But we have no gun crews, Longsword,” protested he.
The Celt scratched his head.
“That’s so, sure,” he admitted. “I never once thought of that.”
They held a course up the channel all night; the moon rode grandly in the starlit heavens, and bathed the chopping waters with radiance. But toward morning her glory waned, and the darkness that ensued was of that complete pall-like sort that usually precedes dawn.
Then a fog settled slowly down—the wet, clinging mist that is common in those waters, and they sailed on through it, chilled and silent. Deeper and thicker it grew as the moments went by; they had sighted no vessel since they had run out; but now, with the suddenness of magic, the gleaming bow lights of a large ship appeared ahead like the angry eyes of some sea monster glaring upon them.
Ethan threw the wheel down hard; the nose of the schooner swung about in answer and she plunged across the bow of the ship like a ghost. A startled cry came from the larger vessel’s deck, then followed a hubbub of sounds; and at last a voice hailed them.
“Ahoy! What vessel is that?”
The creaking of the yards of the ship showed that she was about to investigate the schooner; but at the hail, Ethan and Shamus O’Moore looked at one another blankly.
“I never thought to ask the name of this craft,” said the boy.
“Nor I,” answered the Irishman, “but we’ll know in a minute, faith.”