"What make you of her, Master Oglander?" questioned Jacob Hartop in a quiet, deeply earnest tone as he gripped one of the stays to steady himself while the boat rose to meet the great Atlantic rollers.
Gilbert shielded his eyes from the strong light of the sunset as he stood with one arm clasped about the mast.
"'Tis a goodly ship in the matter of size," he presently said; "yet I can see but little of her hull, for she is bow-on, sailing eastward as it seemeth."
"Haply 'tis one of their quick-sailing advance guards," suggested Webbe.
But Hartop silently continued to look out upon the sea with his brows bent and an expression of grim expectancy in his cold gray eyes.
"Canst make out if there be more than one ship?" he asked after a long pause. "Mark it well, my boy; for it were best that we make the matter full certain ere we fly back with the alarm."
Gilbert's eyes slowly swept the line of the horizon.
"No," he said; "there is but the one."
"Then we may not yet return," said Hartop; and turning to Timothy Trollope he added: "Take you the tiller, Tim, and keep our head to the westward until the dusk hath fallen. By that time we should know more."