ine has no more sense within it than
it has hairs without. If you had drawn string for as many months as I
have years you would know that a straight-cut feather flies smoother
than a swine-backed, and pity it is that these young bowmen have none to
teach them better!"

This attack upon his professional knowledge touched the old bowyer on
the raw. His fat face became suffused with blood and his eyes glared
with fury as he turned upon the archer. "You seven-foot barrel of lies!"
he cried. "All-hallows be my aid, and I will teach you to open your
slabbing mouth against me! Pluck forth your sword and stand out on
yonder deck, that we may see who is the man of us twain. May I never
twirl a shaft over my thumb nail if I do not put Bartholomew's mark upon
your thick head!"

A score of rough voices joined at once in the quarrel, some upholding
the bowyer and others taking the part of the North Countryman. A
red-headed Dalesman snatched up a sword, but was felled by a blow from
the fist of his neighbor. Instantly, with a buzz like a swarm of angry
hornets, the bowmen were out on the deck; but ere a blow was struck
Knolles was amongst them with granite face and eyes of fire.

"Stand apart, I say! I will warrant you enough fighting to cool your
blood ere you see England once more. Loring, Hawthorn, cut any man down
who raises his hand. Have you aught to say, you fox-haired rascal?" He
thrust his face within two inches of that of the red man who had first
seized his sword. The fellow shrank back, cowed, from his fierce
eyes. "Now stint your noise, all of you, and stretch your long ears.
Trumpeter, blow once more!"

A bugle call had been sounded every quarter of an hour so as to keep in
touch with the other two vessels who were invisible in the fog. Now the
high clear note rang out once more, the call of a fierce sea-creature to
its mates, but no answer came back from the thick wall which pent them
in. Again and again they called, and again and again with bated breath
they waited for an answer.

"Where is the Shipman?" asked Knolles. "What is your name, fellow? Do
you dare call yourself master-mariner?"

"My name is Nat Dennis, fair sir," said the gray-bearded old seaman. "It
is thirty years since first I showed my cartel and blew trumpet for
a crew at the water-gate of Southampton. If any man may call himself
master-mariner, it is surely I."

"Where are our two ships?"

"Nay, sir, who can say in this fog?"

"Fellow, it