Now come the two other ships from behind us.
Young Lord Erik lies wounded on the after-deck. Half of the men sit white, about the arrow-struck mast. The other two ships come on.
My lord cries to face them, and we move slowly, seeing over the bow the ships rush on over the place where their comrades sank, striking the heads of the swimming men with their oar-blades.
We drop our arms and, heaving three times on the long-oars, send our ship between the other two.
A flight of arrows, a glimpse on each side of a passing mast—they are behind us. My lord calls from the after-deck, “Row away, row away!”
Turning my head to look at him I see him laughing, the bow still in his hand.
We rowed round the sand-spit, and as we went round it we saw the two ships close together picking up men from where a mast stuck up out of the light-green water.
“It is the second time we have been comrades,” said young Lord Erik, his right arm bandaged, gazing up palely at my lord as they stood by the rail.
My lord smiled.
“Yes, true,” he said.