Below is a boat with men in it—half-a-score of them—seated on the thwarts, some lolling over against the gunwales asleep. At a glance he can tell them to be Crusaders.
His hail startles them into activity; one and all recognising the voice of their old shipmate.
“Quick!” he cries; “quick, mates! This way, and along with me! Don’t stay to ask questions. Enough for you to know that the lives of your officers are in danger.”
It proves enough. The tars don’t wait for a word more; but spring from their recumbent attitude, and out of the boat.
Rushing up the pier steps, they cluster around their comrade. They have not needed instructions to arm themselves. Harry’s speech, with its tone, told of some shore hostility, and they have instinctively made ready to meet it; each laying hold of the weapon nearest to his hand; some a knife, some an oar, others a boat-hook.
“Heave with me, lads!” cries Harry; and they “heave”—at his heels—rushing after, as if to extinguish a fire in the forecastle.
Soon they are coursing along the strand, towards the upturned boat, silently, and without asking explanation. If they did, they could not get it; for their leader is panting, breathless, almost unable to utter a word. But five issue from his throat, jerked out disjointedly, and in hoarse utterance. They are:
“Crozier—Cadwallader—waylaid—robbers—murderers!”
Enough to spur the Crusaders to their best speed, if not already at it. But they are; every man of them straining his strength to the utmost.
As they rush on, cleaving the thick fog, Harry at their head listens intently. As yet he can distinguish no sound to alarm him; only the monotonous swashing of the sea, and the murmur of distant voices in the streets of the town. But no cries—no shouts, nor shots; nothing to tell of deadly strife.