An hour went by. Ashore a cock crowed, and a fisherman’s donkey, tethered high up the cliff-side, roared asthmatically in reply. The boats swung round as the tide slackened and made. The night freshened. Ripples lapped the bows. The land wind was blowing. Ortho lay face-down on the stroke thwart and yawned. Adventure—if adventure there was to be—was a long time coming. He was getting cold. The rhythmic lift and droop of the gig, the lisp and chuckle of the water voices had a hypnotic effect on him. He pillowed his cheek on his forearms and drowsed, dreamt he was swaying in gloomy space, disembodied, unsubstantial, a wraith dipping and soaring over a bottomless void. Clouds rolled by him big as continents. He saw the sun and moon below him no bigger than pins’ heads and world upon glittering world strewn across the dark like grains of sand. He could not have long lain thus, could not have fallen fully asleep, for Anson’s first low call set him wide awake. “Sail ho!” Both boats’ crews sat up as one man. “Where away?” “Sou’-east.” Ortho’s eyes bored into the hollow murk seawards, but could distinguish nothing for the moment. Then, as he stared, it seemed to him that the dark smudge that was the corner of the Carn was expanding westwards. It stretched and stretched until, finally, a piece detached itself altogether and he knew it was a big cutter creeping close inshore under full sail. Never a wink of light did the stranger show. “Hast lantern ready?” hissed Jacky’s George. “Aye,” from Anson. “Cast off there, hoist killick and stand by.” “Aye, aye!” The blur that was the cutter crept on, silent as a shadow, almost indistinguishable against the further dark, a black moth on black velvet. All eyes watched her. Suddenly a green light glowed amidships, stabbing the inky waters with an emerald dagger, glowed steadily, blinked out, glowed again and vanished. Ortho felt his heart bound into his throat. “Now,” snapped Jacky’s George. “Show lantern . . . four times, remember.” Anson stood up and did as he was bid. The green lantern replied, the cutter rounded up in the wind and drifted towards them, tide-borne. “Out oars and pull,” said Jacky’s George. They swept within forty yards of the cutter. “’Vast pulling,” came a voice from her bows. “Back water, all!” Jacky’s George commanded. “Is that George Baragwanath?” came the voice again, a high-pitched, kindly voice, marvelously clear. “Aye, aye!” “What’s the word then, my dear?” “Hosannah!” “What’s that there boat astern of ’e?” “Mine—my second boat.” “Well, tell him to keep off a cable’s length till I’ve seen to ’e,” the amiable voice continued. “If he closes ’fore I tell en I’ll blow him outer the water as God is my salvation. No offense meant, but we can’t take chances, you understand. Come ahead, you.” The gig’s crew gave way and brought their craft alongside the smuggler.