“I didn’t like to leave the brandy,” said Davy. “They got it, though, and me, tight enough. It put them into a good temper, however, and they didn’t shoot me through the head, like they did a farmer that they made help to roll up their casks of ammunition, when he tried to escape. They made me carry up one of my own kegs which went against the grain; then they took me to their chief.”
“Did you see the chief?” I asked, eagerly.
“’Deed to goodness, yes—General Tate—no more a Frenchman than I am; Irish, I’m thinking. He seemed very uneasy, and none of his men minded him. I had company—John Owen, of the sloop Britannia, laden with culm for Llanstinan—they didn’t care for culm, and were cross to him, and a mortal fright he was in, but had sense enough left to tell them a lot of lies. Then I saw Llewelyn, and had a word on the sly with him; he told me you were hereabouts; I watched my chance, and an hour or two ago I slipped down over the cliffs, seized this boat, and made off; but they saw me from one of the ships, and gave chase, and—”
A cry interrupted him, succeeded by a loud splashing of oars.
“And, hang them, there they are again. Why-ever couldn’t you hold your tongue, Dan?”
This was unjust, as Davy had done all the talking himself; but the present was no moment for arguing. We bent to the oars with a will and in silence, till my hands were blistered, my heart panting, and my back breaking, and still the enemy were gaining on us.
Nancy leant forward.
“Change with me for a spell, Dan. I can row.”
On we went again, fast, faster, and still the other boat came on after us yet more rapidly—it was like a nightmare. We came in very close to the cliffs now, and Davy took both oars. In between two reefs of rocks we went—a deep channel, yet full of treacherous windings and turnings.
“I think we’ll do now,” said Davy. “Please Providence, they may easily be smashed to atoms here.”