ke an effective
blow, the slaves were doing little more than just give her steerage way.
And seeing this, George suddenly determined upon a bold step. To cross
a galley's bows was, under ordinary circumstances, simply to invite
disaster, but noting the apparent hesitation of the galley's captain,
Saint Leger determined to risk it in the present case; therefore, first
signing to the helmsman to keep the ship away a trifle more, he turned
to his crew and shouted: "Gunners, depress the muzzles of your pieces
sufficiently to sweep yonder galley's deck, and fire just so soon as you
can be sure to hit her. I am going to risk crossing her bows. Archers,
stand ready to discharge your shafts. And let the waits play up `Ye
gallant sons of Devon.' If so be that there are any English among the
galley-slaves, 'twill hearten the poor souls up a bit to know that some
of their own countrymen be close at hand."

And therewith the waits--some half a dozen instrumentalists--launched
forth with an air that was at that time as familiar to every Devon man
as his own name, though it is nearly if not quite forgotten now. Ten
seconds later, every man on the galleon's decks, from George downward,
was shouting the fine old song at the top of his voice, the melody going
far out over the water and causing the haughty Dons on the galley's poop
to stare in amazement.

Almost at the same instant the galley's culverin spoke again. This time
the piece was aimed to hit, and it did so, piercing the galleon's
larboard poop bulwark and passing so close to George's head that he
distinctly felt the wind of it, while a big splinter from the bulwark
not only knocked off his steel headpiece, but also scored his scalp so
shrewdly that in a moment he was almost blinded by the blood that
streamed down into his eyes. The force of the blow caused him to
stagger for a moment, and three or four men stationed at the smaller
ordnance on the poop rushed toward him, fearing that he was badly hurt.
But with a smile he ordered them back to their stations as he wiped the
blood out of his eyes with his kerchief, and the next instant a loud
twanging of bowstrings told that the archers had got to work. A final
glance at the galley showed George that her oarsmen were still pulling
slow and that there was ample room for the galleon to cross her bows; he
therefore signed to the helmsman and the great ship went surging past,
while her ordnance, great and small, belched for