“Let them,” laughed Longsword. “Sure if they begin firing in a fog like this it’s only waste good powder they’ll be doing.”
Ethan had changed the course of the Condor until she stood as before the meeting; the wind blew briskly once more and the fog began to lift before it. The schooner had made some little distance before this died away, and the mist settled once more. Nothing was seen of the British ship.
“We have eluded them very nicely,” laughed Ethan, as he gazed into the gray wall behind them, vainly endeavoring to catch a glimpse of the Englishman.
He had no sooner uttered these words than a shout rang out from Longsword in the bow. Whirling about, his hand upon the butt of a pistol, he was dumbfounded to see the red and green bow lights glaring at the schooner for the second time that night.
“The Drake once more,” cried Longsword in amazement.
“It can’t be,” answered Ethan, easing the schooner a trifle. “We left the Drake behind us.”
“You’ve been sailing in a circle,” shouted one of the English seamen, exultantly. “The Drake is a smart craft, and she’s got you now.”
“Ahoy!” came through the gloom of the misty morning. “What craft is that?”
“British schooner Condor,” cried the sailor before he could be prevented. “What ship is that?”
Ethan heard the man chuckle as he waited for the expected answer. But the chuckle died in the British tar’s throat when the voice from the newcomer shouted,