"See! see!" he cried. "It is a ship!"
Gilbert's eyes followed the direction in which the old man pointed, and presently he discovered, at the farther fringe of the light, the towering form of a vessel's hull. He could clearly see her stern port-holes, with the gallery above them, and above the gallery the projecting rail of her poop-deck. Her counter was richly carved with many strange devices, and the carvings were covered with tarnished gold. Her stout masts rose high above her, and her ragged sails were ample evidence that it was long since the ship had known their use.
"Can you not see her?" continued Hartop. "Od's life, boy! Look where I point."
"I see her, Master Hartop," returned Gilbert; "I see her. 'Tis a galleon, and a Spaniard by her build."
"Ay, faith, a galleon indeed," nodded Hartop; "and a galleon upon which mine eyes now look not for the first time, if she be not a ghost!" He rose to his feet, still keeping his arm about Gilbert, and added in a strange, dry voice that was scarcely more than a breath: "'Tis a ghost, Master Oglander, 'tis a ghost that you look upon—the ghost of the Golden Galleon!"
And so saying, he turned from the sight and sank upon the narrow deck, covering his face with his hands.
By this time Timothy Trollope also had seen the galleon. Clasping the tiller, he held it over. But it had no effect, for the pinnace had no way upon her; the wind had fallen to an absolute calm, and the sail hung loose and motionless against the mast.
"Out with the sweeps!" cried Edward Webbe, and Timothy, leaving his post, took up one of the long oars, while Gilbert Oglander took the other, and together they pulled and pulled, striving to bring the boat round and so escape from the grim phantom galleon. But with the first stroke they made their oar-blades caught in a mesh of sea-weeds. The disturbed water flashed with phosphorescent fire, and when the oars were with difficulty dragged up they rose dripping with a shower of sparks and heavy with clinging weeds. Again the oars were dipped, and again they were weighted with the tangled growth of weeds.
"'Tis of no avail, Tim," declared Gilbert as he drew in his oar. He leaned over the boat's side and looked down into the calm, shadowy water, where fitful tracks of shining white light showed the movements of coiling writhing monsters of the deep.