A minute later they were sailing on a clear blue sea
with an azure cloud-flecked sky above their heads, and such a
scene beneath it as each of them would carry in his memory while
memory remained.
They were in mid-channel. The white and green coasts of Picardy
and of Kent lay clear upon either side of them. The wide channel
stretched in front, deepening from the light blue beneath their
prow to purple on the far sky-line. Behind them was that thick
bank of cloud from which they had just burst. It lay like a gray
wall from east to west, and through it were breaking the high
shadowy forms of the ships of Spain. Four of them had already
emerged, their red bodies, gilded sides and painted sails shining
gloriously in the evening sun. Every instant a fresh golden spot
grew out of the fog, which blazed like a star for an instant, and
then surged forward to show itself as the brazen beak of the great
red vessel which bore it. Looking back, the whole bank of cloud
was broken by the widespread line of noble ships which were
bursting through it. The Basilisk lay a mile or more in front of
them and two miles clear of their wing. Five miles farther off,
in the direction of the French coast, two other small ships were
running down Channel. A cry of joy from Robert Knolles and a
hearty prayer of gratitude to the saints from the old shipman
hailed them as their missing comrades, the cog Thomas and the
Grace Dieu.
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