Not a word had been spoken by the rowers or the man at the tiller, and I was so interested in wondering what next was going to happen that I was perfectly satisfied to curb my curiosity and ask no questions. I was not anxious to anticipate, and felt really sad to think that I was soon to leave M. De Brissac—for what, I knew not.
We were off the coast between Dunkerque and Gravelines, and I should judge that the boat had rowed out some seven or eight miles. The men at the oars looked part Dutch and part French. They were a villanous-looking set, however, and the fellow at the tiller appeared little above them in order of intelligence; but while we were pulling straight ahead, the cockswain suddenly stood up straight in his box.
"Arrêtez!" he whispered, hoarsely.
The men backed-water skilfully, but yet such headway did the boat have on that it required three or four efforts before we came to a stop. There right ahead of us lay a long white, lapstreak boat, sharp at both ends. She had pulled directly athwart our bows. Had we been keeping a sharp lookout we would have seen her long before, as her crew must have had us in sight for some minutes. One glance at them told me that these men were not Frenchmen. De Rembolez had stood up almost as soon as the cockswain, and was looking forward eagerly, but I saw his face change to a puzzled expression.
"Les Anglais!" exclaimed the cockswain between his teeth.
A few strokes of the long oars that the men in the stranger craft wielded, and she was almost alongside of us.
"Un pilote," said a voice with an execrable accent and a drawling twang through the nose. "We want a pilot. Avez-vous un pilote?"
"We have no pilot for you!" answered Monsieur de la Remy, in good English. "Keep away from us."
But what was I doing at this very moment?
It was with difficulty that I was restraining an inclination to plunge overboard and strike out for the whale-boat.