_She thinks she smells the Northland rime,_ _And the dear dark nights of winter-time._ _Her very bolts are sick for shore,_ _And we—we want it ten times more!_ _Hoe—all you Gods that love brave men,_ _Send us a three-reef gale again!_ _Send us a gale, and watch us come,_ _With close-cropped canvas slashing home!_ But—_there’s no wind in all these seas,_ A long pull for Stavanger! _So we must wake the white-ash breeze,_ A long pull for Stavanger! OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY ‘It has nought to do with apes or devils,’ Sir Richard went on, in an undertone. ‘It concerns De Aquila, than whom there was never bolder nor craftier, nor more hardy knight born. And, remember, he was an old, old man at that time.’ ‘When?’ said Dan. ‘When we came back from sailing with Witta.’ ‘What did you do with your gold?’ said Dan. ‘Have patience. Link by link is chain-mail made. I will tell all in its place. We bore the gold to Pevensey on horseback—three loads of it—and then up to the north chamber, above the Great Hall of Pevensey Castle, where De Aquila lay in winter. He sat on his bed like a little white falcon, turning his head swiftly from one to the other as we told our tale. Jehan the Crab, an old sour man-at-arms, guarded the stairway, but De Aquila bade him wait at the stair-foot, and let down both leather curtains over the door. It was Jehan whom De Aquila had sent to us with the horses, and only Jehan had loaded the gold. When our story was told, De Aquila gave us the news of England, for we were as men waked from a year-long sleep. The Red King was dead—slain (ye remember?) the day we set sail—and Henry, his younger brother, had made himself King of England over the head of Robert of Normandy. This was the very thing that the Red King had done to Robert when our Great William died. Then Robert of Normandy, mad, as De Aquila said, at twice missing of this kingdom, had sent an army against England, which army had been well beaten back to their ships at Portsmouth. A little earlier, and Witta’s ship would have rowed through them. ‘“And now,” said De Aquila, “half the great Barons of the north and west are out against the King between Salisbury and Shrewsbury; and half the other half wait to see which way the game shall go. They say Henry is overly English for their stomachs, because he hath married an English wife and she hath coaxed him to give back their old laws to our Saxons. (Better ride a horse on the bit he knows, _I_ say.) But that is only a cloak to their falsehood.” He cracked his finger on the table where the wine was spilt, and thus he spoke:—