With beads of sweat standing out on his forehead the man-at-arms peered through the darkness. The squire was right. A huge unwieldy craft, propelled by oars, was slowly stemming the tide.
"Take the tiller and keep her so," exclaimed Arnold, placing Geoffrey's hand upon the long, wooden pole. "Say not a word."
Resuming their oars Oswald and the old soldier urged the boat as swiftly as they were able, exercising due caution to prevent the sound of their blades from being heard.
"The Jean Baptiste is abroad late this night," shouted a gruff voice as the two craft swept past each other at less than twenty yards' distance.
Gripwell could not trust himself to speak. Bending over his oar he grunted something incoherently.
"Heed him not, Simon. He hath been drinking. Old Jacques is ever surly in his cups. May the blessed Peter see to it that he tears his nets on the Roches d'Ailly."
"I' faith," exclaimed Gripwell as the boats drew beyond earshot. "'Twas a narrow escape. Bear witness, young sirs, how the proverb 'One man's meat is another man's poison' can be reversed. But now we are clear of the land, and the breeze is beginning to make itself felt. Stay where thou art at the helm, Master Geoffrey—nay, 'twill be best for thy companion to take the tiller, seeing that he is hurt. Thereupon, I pray thee, bear a hand with this sail."
Not without infinite trouble Geoffrey and the man-at-arms succeeded in hoisting the heavy yard and its huge brown sail. Then, heeling to the steady breeze, the little craft began to slip quickly through the water.
"That is well," ejaculated Arnold as he relieved Oswald at the helm. "Another twelve hours at this speed and we ought to sight the white cliffs of England."
"How canst thou make sure of the way?" asked Oswald, doubtful of the old soldier's skill in seamanship.