Suddenly the Spanish officer, when their prow was not more than twenty paces from him, ceased to shout, and lifting his piece fired. Martin, looking upwards with his left eye, thought that he saw Hans flinch, but the pilot made no sound. Only he did something to the tiller, putting all his strength on to it, and it seemed to the pair of them as though the _Swallow_ was for an instant checked in her flight—certainly her prow appeared to lift itself from the water. Suddenly there was a sound of something snapping—a sound that could be heard even through the yell of terror from the soldiers in the boat. It was the bowsprit which had gone, leaving the jib flying loose like a great pennon. Then came the crash. Foy shut his eyes for a moment, hanging on with both hands till the scraping and the trembling were done with. Now he opened them again, and the first thing he saw was the body of the Spanish officer hanging from the jagged stump of the bowsprit. He looked behind. The boat had vanished, but in the water were to be seen the heads of three or four men swimming. As for themselves they seemed to be clear and unhurt, except for the loss of their bowsprit; indeed, the little vessel was riding over the seas on the bar like any swan. Hans glanced at the slow-match which was smouldering away perilously near to the deck, whereon Martin stamped upon it, saying: “If we sink now it will be in deep water, so there is no need to fly up before we go down.” “Go and see if she leaks,” said Hans. They went and searched the forehold but could not find that the _Swallow_ had taken any harm worth noting. Indeed, her massive oaken prow, with the weight of the gale-driven ship behind it, had crashed through the frail sides of the open Spanish boat like a knife through an egg. “That was good steering,” said Foy to Hans, when they returned, “and nothing seems to be amiss.” Hans nodded. “I hit him neatly,” he muttered. “Look. He’s gone.” As he spoke the _Swallow_ gave a sharp pitch, and the corpse of the Spaniard fell with a heavy splash into the sea. “I am glad it has sunk,” said Foy; “and now let’s have some breakfast, for I am starving. Shall I bring you some, friend Hans?” “No, master, I want to sleep.” Something in the tone of the man’s voice caused Foy to scrutinise his face. His lips were turning blue. He glanced at his hands. Although they still grasped the tiller tightly, these also were turning blue, as though with cold; moreover, blood was dropping on the deck. “You are hit,” he said. “Martin, Martin, Hans is hit!” “Yes,” replied the man, “he hit me and I hit him, and perhaps presently we shall be talking it over together. No, don’t trouble, it is through the body and mortal. Well, I expected nothing less, so I can’t complain. Now, listen, while my strength holds. Can you lay a course for Harwich in England?” Martin and Foy shook their heads. Like most Hollanders they were good sailormen, but they only knew their own coasts.