“Ay, ay!” responds he who was the last at the wheel.
“All right; shove off, then! That wind’ll take the old Condor straight seawart; and long afore sunrise she’ll be out sight o’ land. Give way there—way!”
The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from the side, with prow turned shoreward.
The barque, with her sails still spread, is left to herself, and the breeze, which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilderness of ocean.
Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle of an oar in its rowlock, the pirates run their boat through the breakers, and approach the shore. Right ahead are the two summits, with the moon just going down behind; and between is a cove of horseshoe shape, the cliffs extending around it.
With a few more strokes the boat is brought into it and glides on to its innermost end.
As the keel grates upon the shingly strand, their ears are saluted by a chorus of cries—the alarm signal of seabirds, startled by the intrusion; among them the scream of the harpy eagle, resembling the laugh of a maniac.
These sounds, despite their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing them. They tell of a shore uninhabited—literally, that the “coast is clear”—just as they wish it.
Beaching the boat, they bound on shore, and lift their captives out; then the spoils—one unresisting as the other.
Some go in search of a place where they may pass the night; for it is too late to think of proceeding inland.