"Panounia follow," he said. "He great angry. Drop irons," he added, pointing to the little anchors.
"Panounia is wounded. You winged him yourself," replied Kingswell. "He could not follow us around that coast, lad, at the clip we were coming."
Ouenwa considered the words with puckered brows. They were beyond him. The commander pointed shoreward.
"All safe," he said. "All safe."
"No, no," cried the lad. "All kill. No safe."
During this controversy the sail had been partly lowered, and the Pelican had been slowly running landward with the fog.
Kingswell looked from the young Beothic to the seamen with a smile of whimsical uncertainty.
"Out o' the mouths o' babes an' sucklin's," remarked Tom Bent, with his deep-set eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Kingswell's glance rested, for a moment, on the ancient mariner.
"Lower away," he said. The sail flapped down, and was quickly stowed. "Let go the anchors," he commanded. The grapplings splashed into the gray waves. The fog crawled over the boat and shut her off from land and sky. With a last dreary whistle, the wind died out entirely.