“My lord! My lord!” was the cry, in a voice shaken by excitement, and succeeded by a shouting chorus from the crew.
Sakr-el-Bahr turned swiftly to the entrance, whisked aside the curtain, and stepped out upon the poop. Larocque was in the very act of clambering over the bulwarks amidships, towards the waist-deck where Asad awaited him in company with Marzak and the trusty Biskaine. The prow, on which the corsairs had lounged at ease since yesterday, was now a seething mob of inquisitive babbling men, crowding to the rail and even down the gangway in their eagerness to learn what news it was that brought the sentinel aboard in such excited haste.
From where he stood Sakr-el-Bahr heard Larocque’s loud announcement.
“The ship I sighted at dawn, my lord!”
“Well?” barked Asad.
“She is here—in the bay beneath that headland. She has just dropped anchor.”
“No need for alarm in that,” replied the Basha at once. “Since she has anchored there it is plain that she has no suspicion of our presence. What manner of ship is she?”
“A tall galleon of twenty guns, flying the flag of England.
“Of England!” cried Asad in surprise. “She’ll need be a stout vessel to hazard herself in Spanish waters.”
Sakr-el-Bahr advanced to the rail.