“We are drawing away!” cried Marzak in jubilation. “The praise to Allah!”
And so indeed they were. Visibly the lights of the galleon were receding. With every inch of canvas spread yet she appeared to be standing still, so faint was the breeze that stirred. And whilst she crawled, the galeasse raced as never yet she had raced since Sakr-el-Bahr had commanded her, for Sakr-el-Bahr had never yet turned tail upon the foe in whatever strength he found him.
Suddenly over the water from the galleon came a loud hail. Asad laughed, and in the darkness shook his fist at them, cursing them in the name of Allah and his Prophet. And then, in answer to that curse of his, the galleon’s side belched fire; the calm of the night was broken by a roar of thunder, and something smote the water ahead of the Muslim vessel with a resounding thudding splash.
In fear Rosamund drew closer to Sakr-el-Bahr. But Asad laughed again.
“No need to fear their marksmanship,” he cried. “They cannot see us. Their own lights dazzle them. On! On!”
“He is right,” said Sakr-el-Bahr. “But the truth is that they will not fire to sink us because they know you to be aboard.”
She looked out to sea again, and beheld those friendly lights falling farther and farther astern.
“We are drawing steadily away,” she groaned. “They will never overtake us now.”
So feared Sakr-el-Bahr. He more than feared it. He knew that save for some miraculous rising of the wind it must be as she said. And then out of his despair leapt inspiration—a desperate inspiration, true child of that despair of which it was begotten.
“There is a chance,” he said to her. “But it is as a throw of the dice with life and death for stakes.”