reached a rope and pulled himself hand over hand up to the quay, all
stood aghast to see what fell fate would befall this bold stranger. But
Badding laughed loudly, dashing the saltwater from his eyes and hair.

"You have fairly won your place, archer," said he. "You are the very man
for our work. Where is Black Simon of Norwich?"

A tall dark young man with a long, stern, lean face came forward. "I am
with you, Cock," said he, "and I thank you for my place."

"You can come, Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Hal Masters, and you, Dicon of
Rye. That is enough. Now off, in God's name, or it will be night ere we
can come up with them!"

Already the head-sails and the main-sail had been raised, while a
hundred willing hands poled her off from the wharf. Now the wind caught
her; heeling over, and quivering with eagerness like an unleashed hound
she flew through the opening and out into the Channel. She was a famous
little schooner, the Marie Rose of Winchelsea, and under her daring
owner Cock Badding, half trader and half pirate, had brought back into
port many a rich cargo taken in mid-Channel, and paid for in blood
rather than money. Small as she was, her great speed and the fierce
character of her master had made her a name of terror along the French
coast, and many a bulky Eastlander or Fleming as he passed the narrow
seas had scanned the distant Kentish shore, fearing lest that ill-omened
purple sail with a gold Christopher upon it should shoot out suddenly
from the dim gray cliffs. Now she was clear of the land, with the wind
on her larboard quarter, every inch of canvas set, and her high sharp
bows smothered in foam, as she dug through the waves.

Cock Badding trod the deck with head erect and jaunty bearing, glancing
up at the swelling sails and then ahead at the little tilted white
triangle, which stood out clear and hard against the bright blue sky.
Behind was the lowland of the Camber marshes, with the bluffs of Rye and
Winchelsea, and the line of cliffs behind them. On the larboard bow rose
the great white walls of Folkestone and of Dover, and far on the distant
sky-line the gray shimmer of those French cliffs for which the fugitives
were making.

"By Saint Paul!" cried Nigel, looking with eager eyes over the tossing
waters, "it seems to me, Master Badding, that already we draw in upon
them."

The master measured the distance with his keen steady gaze, and then
looked up at the sinking sun. "We have still four h