Making sure that every stitch of canvas was drawing, the master kept the Happy Adventure on her course, casting anxious glances over his shoulder at the pursuing frigate, which was barely two miles astern.
"We gain a little," he remarked after a while, as the shots fell farther and farther astern; but ahead was a belt of flat calm, and unless the breeze held our capture seemed inevitable.
The rest of the squadron had borne away more to the south'ard, heading towards the Needles Channel. Astern the frigate was crowding on sail, ahead were the guns of Hurst Castle, and we knew that we were fairly entrapped.
[Illustration: The darting rays fell on my face, and with a stifled cry of terror the soldier turned to flee.]
The cornet suggested running the vessel ashore, but to this proposal the master gave a stern refusal.
"We have a chance, a bare chance," he said. "And as long as my craft floats I'll take it."
Fortunately the breeze held in front of us, the belt of unruffled water receding still farther as we progressed, and the Happy Adventure showed that her reputation for sailing was no idle one. The frigate, too, finding that we were out of range had ceased firing, but had set her royals.
Staggering under her press of sail, she evidently found that the wind was too much for her, and shortly afterwards we could see the royals being clewed up. Then a blinding rain set in, almost blotting out the outlines of our pursuer, whereat the master whistled blithely.
"Edge her off a bit," he ordered, "or we'll be hard and fast aground." And, to my surprise, the smack was steered, not as I thought towards the open sea, but nearer the shore. Though I dare not question this fiery-tempered son of Devon, he doubtless saw the look of inquiry on my face.