So we held on straight down the wind, while the Englishman, closing in at every mile, held on too; and no one was to say which of us gained an inch on the other.
The sun tumbled into the sea and the brief twilight grew deeper, while behind us the wind gathered itself into a squall. Just before daylight failed, we could perceive the cruiser, not two miles away, leaning forward on her course, with the Queen’s flag on her poop, and a row of portholes gaping our way. Then we lost her in the dusk.
The poet, who stood near me at the gun, said:
“Night is as a cave of which none seeth the end from the beginning; and a man hooded feeleth what he before saw. My Hollander, I bargained not for this when I took passage here. I wish it were to-morrow. Why do we not, under cover of night, change our course?”
“Because, since that is what our pursuers will expect of us, it will delude them the more if we keep straight on.”
“O truth, many are thy arts!” said he. “But if, my Soothsayer, the wolf’s cunning be a match for that of the lamb? What then?”
“Then you may want your match, and your knife too,” said I.
He shivered a little.
“My Hollander,” said he, “if I fall, say to my lady ’twas for her; and I pray you give her the gem in my bonnet. Say to her its brightness was dimmer than the remembrance of her eyes; and its price meaner than the dewdrop on her lip. Bring her to see me where I lie; and compose my face to greet her. Tell me, my Dutchman, doth a cannon ball give short shrift, or were it easier to die by the steel?”
“A peace to your nonsense,” said I. “You have more sonnets to write before we need think of laying you out.”