to the end of the little gravelly tongue
and crouched among the tall meadow-sweet and grasses, while the others,
working furiously, rolled the two barrels to the water-edge and shipped
them, throwing rushes over them that they might not catch the eye of the
Spaniards.

The sailing boat drew on. In the stern-sheets of it sat Ramiro, an open
paper, which he was studying, upon his knee, and still slung about his
body the great sword Silence.

"Before I am half an hour older," reflected Martin, for even now he did
not like to trust his thoughts to Adrian, "either I will have that sword
back again, or I shall be a dead man. But the odds are great, eleven of
them, all tough fellows, and we but three and two women."

Just then Ramiro's voice reached them across the stillness of the water.

"Down with the sail," he cried cheerily, "for without a doubt that is
the place--there are the six islets in a line, there in front the other
island shaped like a herring, and there the little promontory marked
'landing place.' How well this artist draws to be sure!"

The rest of his remarks were lost in the creaking of the blocks as the
sail came down.

"Shallow water ahead, Senor," said a man in the bows sounding with a
boat hook.

"Good," answered Ramiro, throwing out the little anchor, "we will wade
ashore."

As he spoke the Spanish soldier with the boat-hook suddenly pitched
head first into the water, a quarrel from Adrian's crossbow through his
heart.

"Ah!" said Ramiro, "so they are here before us. Well, there can't be
many of them. Now then, prepare to land."

Another quarrel whistled through the air and stuck in the mast, doing
no hurt. After this no more bolts came, for in his eagerness Adrian had
broken the mechanism of the bow by over-winding it, so that it became
useless. They leaped into the water, Ramiro with them, and charged for
the land, when of a sudden, almost at the tip of the little promontory,
from among the reeds rose the gigantic shape of Red Martin, clad in his
tattered jerkin and bearing in his hand a heavy axe, while behind him
appeared Foy and Adrian.

"Why, by the Saints!" cried Ramiro, "there's my weather-cock son again,
fighting against us this time. Well, Weather-cock, this is your last
veer," then he began to wade towards the promontory. "Charge," he cried,
but not a man would advance within reach of that axe. They stood here
and there in the water looking at it doubtfully, for although they we