At this Ambrose Pennington cast a glance towards the ship. A gleam of moonlight now rested upon the water behind her, and her tall hull and masts and bellying sails were darkly outlined against the bright light.
"Why, my lad," said he, in a tone of disappointment, "that is no Spanish ship! Y'are fooling us, for sure. No, 'tis no Spanish ship, I say, but just the old Pearl, that hath been lying under repair against Sutton wharf there these two months past, and that hath come out to-day to try her new-made sails! Come you back to the house, Master Whiddon, for I'll be sworn the lad hath but been playing us some childish prank. Spaniards, forsooth! Prithee who ever heard of a Spaniard, aye, or any other prisoner, breaking away from the hands of Richard Drake?"
At that instant there came a long loud whistle from the beach below.
"Hark you, my masters," cried Timothy Trollope, "that whistle is Drake's signal, calling his men together; and I do most positively declare to you that in a very little time there will be some fighting to be done down on the beach, for we saw the Spaniards, to the number of a good score at the least, passing along the headland and making signs to the ship, which were duly answered. Nay, more, we saw a boat put out from the ship and make for the spot where Master Drake and some three or four men of Plymouth now are—"
"Nay, why stand we parleying here?" broke in Jacob Hartop. "I am for climbing down to the beach, and let them follow me who will." And so saying he swung his great stick over his shoulder and took a slanting course down the slope of the cliff, followed closely by Timothy Trollope.
Whiddon and Pennington, it seemed, preferred to descend by the easier way of the footpath, which led down to the shore in another direction. Timothy, with greater eagerness and with more alertness than old Hartop, soon passed his companion, and was down upon the beach while Jacob was still struggling to penetrate a thick tangle of bramble bushes that grew upon the lower slope.
Timothy waited for him some few moments, and as he stood still he became conscious of some moving figures passing into the shadow behind a wooden hut, in which the fishermen of the neighbouring village kept their old nets and torn sails. A gleam of moonlight glinting upon a drawn sword proved to him that the figures were not those of innocent fishermen. He crept stealthily towards them.
A man presently appeared round the farther corner of the hut. He wore a long cloak and a wide sombrero hat. Timothy guessed that he was one of the escaping Spaniards, and he was about to hail the man when he was startled by once more hearing the long loud whistle, this time close behind him. In an instant as it seemed, he was surrounded by many men. One of them seized him, gripping him by the throat.
"Back there, you Spanish dog!" the fellow cried, at the same moment taking hold of Timothy's drawn sword and dropping it on the shingle behind him.