On their regaining the deck of the Phoenix McKeller manifested great anxiety to hear the result of the interview, and the master had a greatly interested audience as he proceeded to describe the scene with many embellishments and quaint touches of his own. What seemed to have struck him most was Kirke´s helpless rage, and the speechless anger he exhibited at the attack upon his courage and capacity.
Gervase lay against the bulwarks listening without a word; his eyes were fixed on the square tower of the Cathedral rising through the pall of smoke that overhung the city. In thought he saw the haggard gunners on the war-torn battlements, and the sorrowing crowd pouring out from the morning service. His mind was filled with the horror and misery of it, and his heart was bitter within him. He suddenly started and cleared his eyes as if he could not trust his sight; then he looked again. “Merciful God!” he cried, “the flag is down.”
The little knot of men round him turned to look too, and they saw with sinking hearts that the flag, the garrison´s token of defiance, was no longer waving on the Cathedral tower. A great silence fell upon them all--a silence in which one heard the lapping of the water about the bows and the distant scream of the sea-birds, startling and shrill.
“God´s curse light on all traitors and cowards!” cried McKeller.
Then they saw two jets of fire spurt forth from the tower, and a little later the sullen roar of the ordnance, and the hope came into their hearts that it was only in sign of their dire extremity that the garrison had hauled down the flag. And they waited and watched, and again they heard the thunder of the cannon pealing from the tower. Then above the crown of smoke they saw the crimson flag run up the staff, and they knew the city was still inviolate. An involuntary cheer broke from the crew of the Phoenix, which was taken up by the other vessels, and a minute or two afterwards the Swallow fired a salvo in response.
“They have awakened up at last,” cried the master. “Now we´ll even go below and try the boiled beef, and mayhap a runnel of grog.”
“Not a drop of grog,” cried McKeller, “but what boiled beef you like. The wind is freshening from the north, and the Lord may want sober men for this day´s work.”
The captain was not destined to join in their midday meal; hardly had they sat down and hardly had McKeller, who generally acted as chaplain by reason of his superior gravity, finished the long grace by which the meal was introduced, than a messenger came from Kirke, that Douglas was to hasten with all expedition on board the Swallow.
“The more haste the less speed,” cried the Captain, to whom the summons was by no means a welcome one, and who had no taste for a further interview with Kirke. “I´ll have to answer for your speech, Mr. Orme, I´m thinking. I wish McKeller there was in my shoes.”
“You were still good to McKeller,” laughed the mate, “but this time you´ll have to do your own business.”