We had reached the end of the line of cliffs that terminated in a towering peak, dropping sheer into the sea, and, having cleared this iron-bound shore, Dick thrust his huge bulk against the tiller.
Slowly the Emma Farleigh's head swung round, and now right ahead I could see a bay of storm-tossed water, with a rocky, though lower, line of cliffs in the background, and a long line of milk-white foam stretching from shore to shore.
With a roll that threatened to shake the masts out of her, the Emma Farleigh was soon in the thick of it; broken water poured over the bows and both quarters at the same time, while Dick was heaving at the tiller to try and keep the boat on her course.
Crash into the line of white foam she bore; there was a shock that made the vessel quiver from keel to truck; another heave, followed by a slighter yet sickening thud; then, as if sliding down a steep hill, the Emma Farleigh glided into deep water.
We had crossed the bar.
Now the high land sheltered us, and, gliding over a nearly calm sea, the craft ascended a narrow creek, on the left side of which I could distinguish a castle bristling with guns, while the light played upon the steel caps and morions of the soldiers, who were intently watching our progress.
Then a little straggling village came in sight, and at an order the sails fell on deck in a confused heap, the anchor was dropped, and the staunch little craft lay riding to her hempen cable against the swift-running tide.
"Where are we?" I asked faintly.
"Salcombe," he replied. "An' yon's Fort Charles that still holds out for the King."
And even as I looked everything seemed to fade from my view, and I sank senseless on the deck.