a rush to bow and
stern to get up the anchors. Only the officer stood firm, screaming at
them like a madman. It was too late; a strong gust of wind caught the
_Swallow_, causing her to heel over and sweep down on the boat like a
swooping falcon.

Hans stood and shifted the tiller ever so little, calculating all things
with his eye. Foy watched the boat towards which they sprang like a
thing alive, and Martin, lying at his side, watched the burning match.

Suddenly the Spanish officer, when their prow was not more than twenty
paces from him, ceased to shout, and lifting his piece fired. Martin,
looking upwards with his left eye, thought that he saw Hans flinch, but
the pilot made no sound. Only he did something to the tiller, putting
all his strength on to it, and it seemed to the pair of them as though
the _Swallow_ was for an instant checked in her flight--certainly her
prow appeared to lift itself from the water. Suddenly there was a sound
of something snapping--a sound that could be heard even through the yell
of terror from the soldiers in the boat. It was the bowsprit which had
gone, leaving the jib flying loose like a great pennon.

Then came the crash. Foy shut his eyes for a moment, hanging on with
both hands till the scraping and the trembling were done with. Now he
opened again, and the first thing he saw was the body of the Spanish
officer hanging from the jagged stump of the bowsprit. He looked behind.
The boat had vanished, but in the water were to be seen the heads of
three or four men swimming. As for themselves they seemed to be clear
and unhurt, except for the loss of their bowsprit; indeed, the little
vessel was riding over the seas on the bar like any swan. Hans glanced
at the slow-match which was smouldering away perilously near to the
deck, whereon Martin stamped upon it, saying:

"If we sink now it will be in deep water, so there is no need to fly up
before we go down."

"Go and see if she leaks," said Hans.

They went and searched the forehold but could not find that the
_Swallow_ had taken any harm worth noting. Indeed, her massive oaken
prow, with the weight of the gale-driven ship behind it, had crashed
through the frail sides of the open Spanish boat like a knife through an
egg.

"That was good steering," said Foy to Hans, when they returned, "and
nothing seems to be amiss."

Hans nodded. "I hit him neatly," he muttered. "Look. He's gone." As he
spoke the _Swallow_ gave a sharp pitch