We went into the yard, under the pillars of the town hall, across the silent street, through a narrow passage, and down to the sea. Old Rangsley reeled ahead of us swiftly, muttering, “Three men to be set aboard the _Thames_... quarter past eleven. Three men to be set aboard...” and in a few minutes we stood upon the shingle beside the idle sea, that was nearly at the full. CHAPTER FOUR It was, I suppose, what I demanded of Fate--to be gently wafted into the position of a hero of romance, without rough hands at my throat. It is what we all ask, I suppose; and we get it sometimes in ten-minute snatches. I didn’t know where I was going. It was enough for me to sail in and out of the patches of shadow that fell from the moon right above our heads. We embarked, and, as we drew further out, the land turned to a shadow, spotted here and there with little lights. Behind us a cock crowed. The shingle crashed at intervals beneath the feet of a large body of men. I remembered the smugglers; but it was as if I had remembered them only to forget them forever. Old Rangsley, who steered with the sheet in his hand, kept up an unintelligible babble. Carlos and Castro talked under their breaths. Along the gunwale there was a constant ripple and gurgle. Suddenly old Rangsley began to sing; his voice was hoarse and drunken. “When Harol’ war in va--a--ded, An’ fallin’, lost his crownd, An’ Normun Willium wa--a--ded.” The water murmured without a pause, as if it had a million tiny facts to communicate in very little time. And then old Rangsley hove to, to wait for the ship, and sat half asleep, lurching over the tiller. He was a very, unreliable scoundrel. The boat leaked like a sieve. The wind freshened, and we three began to ask ourselves how it was going to end. There were no lights upon the sea. At last, well out, a blue gleam caught our eyes; but by this time old Rangsley was helpless, and it fell to me to manage the boat. Carlos was of no use--he knew it, and, without saying a word, busied himself in bailing the water out. But Castro, I was surprised to notice, knew more than I did about a boat, and, maimed as he was, made himself useful. “To me it looks as if we should drown,” Carlos said at one point, very quietly. “I am sorry for you, Juan.” “And for yourself, too,” I answered, feeling very hopeless, and with a dogged grimness. “Just now, my young cousin, I feel as if I should not mind dying under the water,” he remarked with a sigh, but without ceasing to bail for a moment. “Ah, you are sorry to be leaving home, and your friends, and Spain, and your fine adventures,” I answered. The blue flare showed a very little nearer. There was nothing to be done but talk and wait. “No; England,” he answered in a tone full of meaning--“things in England--people there. One person at least.” To me his words and his smile seemed to imply a bitter irony; but they were said very earnestly.