"Next we'll lose the ebb, too, be
'anged."
Noon passed, and mid-afternoon, before the padre came out from the
courtyard, covering his white head with his ungainly helmet.
"We may go now," he said gravely, "in a few minutes."
No more were needed, for the loose clods in the old shaft of their
counter-mine were quickly handled, and the necessary words soon uttered.
Captain Kneebone had slipped out through the water gate, beforehand, and
lighted the fire on the steps. But not one of the burial party turned
his head, to watch the success or failure of their signal, so long as
the padre's resonant bass continued.
When it ceased, however, they returned quickly through the little grove.
The captain opened the great gate, and looked out eagerly, craning to
see through the smoke that poured into his face.
"The wasters!" he cried bitterly. "She's gone."
The Hakka boat had, indeed, vanished from her moorings. On the bronze
current, nothing moved but three fishing-boats drifting down, with the
smoke, toward the marsh and the bend of the river, and a small junk that
toiled up against wind and tide, a cluster of naked sailors tugging and
shoving at her heavy sweep, which chafed its rigging of dry rope, and
gave out a high, complaining note like the cry of a sea-gull.
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