The wisdom of the efforts of Bras-de-Fer in removing to the handier vessel the most movable of the priceless freight was soon apparent. For there, dull patches upon the southern sky, were the sails of two large vessels bearing smartly up under the stress of the fine westerly wind. Hoarse curses rang forth, and fists were wildly brandished towards the approaching ships, which, as it was plainly to be seen, were Spanish men-of-war, aroused to alertness by the cannonading at sunset and the night-long flares. It would have been hopeless for Bras-de-Fer to try and bring both vessels clear away, for the unwieldly prize rolled heavily in the rising swell and made scarce a bubble under the forefoot. And in her damaged condition, with crippled spars and many guns out of service, the _Sally_ could hardly hope to repeat her success over the _San Isidro_ with two war vessels fresh from the Havana. The weight of argument lay upon the side of his defeat with the loss of all that he had gained. There were two alternatives--to remain with the _San Isidro_ and fight it out to the last, or take his prize crew aboard the _Sally_ and abandon the _San Isidro_ and her prisoners to her compatriots. Bras-de-Fer chose the latter. There was only time to effect the change. He called Jacquard and his master-at-arms and the prize crew aboard their own vessel, and, clapping all sail upon the _Saucy Sally_ that she could carry in safety, sailed clear away and abandoned the huge hulk to the approaching enemy. CHAPTER XII PRISONER AND CAPTOR When the heels of the _Sally_ had put so great a distance between herself and her pursuers that there was nothing to fear of their overhauling her, Bras-de-Fer went below to the cabin. Exhausted by the events of the night, leaning listlessly against the sill of the stern-port, was Mistress Clerke, her lids drooping with weariness as she struggled against tired nature to keep her lone vigil. Her eyes started wide at the sound of his footsteps. She struggled to her feet and stood, her face pallid and drawn, in the cold, garish light of the morning. She scanned him eagerly, peering fearfully into his face for any portentous sign. The dust of battle was still streaked upon it, and the shadows under the brows which had made his countenance forbidding in the mad flush of war upon the _San Isidro_ now only gave the shadows a darker depth of settled melancholy. There was a fierceness and wildness, too, but it was distant, hidden, and self-contained; at bay, only with nothing of aggressiveness for immediate apprehension or alarm. Instead, there was a reserved dignity and aloofness which spoke of a nice sense of a delicate situation. He made no move to draw near her, but stood in the narrow cabin door, hat in hand. “Madame is weary?” he said. “If you will permit--” And then he searched the cabin, a question in his eyes. “The señorita, madame?” he asked.