"Since we know not on what part of the coast we have lighted, and not a sheltering port is to be seen, methinks we shall have much ado to prevent our corpses being washed ashore."
"Can we not cast anchor?"
"'Tis impossible, monsieur," replied the Norman lad, who had overheard Geoffrey's question. "The stout rope that holds the anchor would be rent asunder like a wisp of smouldering flax. Nay, monsieur, we must needs push on, keep the boat's stem to the waves, and trust to be cast fairly on shore. Alas for the Etoile de St. Valery!"
"Courage, comrades," shouted Gripwell. "I espy a place where the cliffs dip somewhat. We will run the craft ashore at that point. Pull thyself together, Master Oswald. E'en within an hour thou mayst set foot on dry land."
As the Etoile approached the shore the seas became shorter and steeper owing to the shoaling bottom. No longer did the stout craft rise easily to the rollers, but labouring heavily she took in water on all sides.
"There are men on the shore," said Geoffrey, as a number of people armed with bows, swords and axes, ran down the steep gorge in the cliffs.
"And a warm welcome they will give us," replied Gripwell gloomily. "Not a hand will they raise save to help themselves."
The old man-at-arms spoke truly. Every foreign ship—ay, and many a luckless English craft as well—that had the misfortune to be cast on shore was regarded by the lawless men of the coastwise hamlets as a prize. In many cases not only were their crews left to their fate, but any unfortunate man who reached the shore alive might be cruelly slain for the sake of a few trifles on his person.
"Hold fast as she strikes!" shouted Gripwell. With feet placed wide apart and body braced to meet the shock the man-at-arms gripped the tiller.
Then with a crash that shook the craft from keel to masthead, the doomed vessel grounded heavily on the shingle.