“It’s what is about to happen!” and Frontin laughed joyously. “Death of my life--who, think you, is out there in the fog?” “Crawford?” “No--Iberville! His fleet must have followed us through the straits. I saw the _Profound_ lying out yonder not a league distant; I ought to know the old brute of a ship, since I once----” Here Frontin checked himself and bit his lip, then continued more carefully. “She has been under Iberville’s orders for two years, therefore the rest of his fleet must be in the straits. And off the cape is an English ship. Come! While the lions fight, the jackals may seize the bone. To work! If we were sure of heaven, we might tamely accept fate; but being minded to stay out of hell as long as possible, we’ll fight. All hands on deck! Sir Phelim, you and your Irishmen get up food, rum or wine, and arms. Dickon, down from aloft!” Now Frontin, knowing that the ice movement had halted with the tide, did a singular and characteristic thing. In the galley was still smouldering a fire, whence the smoke-signal had been drifting aloft all day. He ran to it, seized the ends of brands and whipped them into the embers, raked all the fire into a pot, crammed in some rotten canvas used for tinder, and with the flaming pot aswing in his hand darted down the deck aft--and chucked the whole thing into the stern cabins. Then he whirled upon the shouting, startled men who thought him gone mad, and his voice drove at them. “Quick! Ships are close to us, all around us--an English fleet! The bark’s being crushed i’ the ice; our only hope is to get away and take the corvette that holds Cap’n Crawford--swift, before the flames reach the powder!” Cursing and shouting mad oaths, furious terror and alarm plucking at them, the men scrambled to obey. Sir Phelim whipped his Irish with crackling Gaelic words, while Frontin got the other men at work swinging out the tiny skiff from the stern, with the smoke rolling up from below and the thought of powder-kegs to drive them with the spur of necessity. Now, as though to increase their mad frenzy of haste, came out of the whole ship a frightful scream of twisted oak. She began to move upward, slowly, as the ice nipped and lifted her, started its work of rending through her hull. Into the skiff went fusils and pistols and blades, food and drink; one by one the men dropped to the ice, seized ropes and made fast to the skiff, or lifted at her bodily, each man cursing his neighbour to make more haste. Then they drew away from the heaving, groaning mass of timber, stumbling and slipping over the ice, following the tall figure of Frontin and the shorter, limping Phelim Burke. So the fog closed around them.