"Good fortune," said Blake, as he cast loose, and made away again. "Your mast still stands, and you've seen the worst weather you're like to see. With this wind we look to convoying you to your dock in less than ten days' time." Anthony pointed the ship to the northwest; as level as a gull's flight, the blunted bowsprit held to Henlopen. Then he gave the wheel to one of the new hands and pointed to the compass. "Hold her so," he said. Captain Weir asked to be brought upon deck; he lay on a mattress under the stump of the mainmast, his leg straight and stiff and dead-looking; and ready to his hand lay a pair of loaded pistols. "Now," said he to Anthony, "you may get some rest, all of you. I keep watch on deck until you've slept the clock at least half around." Tom Horn stood at the foot of the companion-ladder when Anthony came below; the man's face looked wan in the half-light, and the pale glow of his eyes had the cold melancholy of the moonlight. "The deck," said he, "is held by the brig's people. And the brig is not your friend." "Captain Weir is there," said Anthony tolerantly. "Are the hawks to be trusted when the swan come down the wind?" asked Tom Horn mildly. "The captain will see to us," said Anthony. Mademoiselle, worn and faint from the long battle with the storm, stood by. "The captain is hurt; he is held fast to his bed," she protested. "He will hear," said Anthony, dull with sleep. "An old fox, and with the blow of a bear. The brig will not approach while he is there; never fear." "But," said mademoiselle, a vague dread in her heart, "if she should? If the men on deck should overpower him?" "Then," said Anthony, "I shall hear. For all I am so full of sleep, I'll be keen enough, if wanted." He went into his cabin, and in a moment they heard the cords of his bed straining under his weight as he threw himself down. "How tired he must be!" said the girl. "Day and night he fought for our lives. Oh, I trust there will be nothing more to try him." "Hark!" said Tom Horn, as he held up his hand and she listened. There was a creaking of blocks, a humming among the cordage, a crowding of wind into the sails. And the seas were heard leaping monotonously at the great prow like running wolves at the throat of a buck. "It is the wind and the sea," said Tom Horn. "There is no evil in either in this region. But evil may ride them, as one may ride an honest horse to do a wrongful deed." Mademoiselle's eyes widened, but she said nothing.