Chapter XLIII. Thora's Answer.
It was a fresh, breezy, August afternoon. In the open sea, far out,
east of the Skerries, we were scudding along blithely, with a flock
of seagulls flying wantonly in our wake. The low hills of the
Orkneys rose like a faint haze on the horizon to westward. Light
waves, touched with green, curled over into snowy spray about our
sides as our boat bent over and plunged buoyantly through them.
Blue was the far-stretching sea, and bluer still the summer sky.
Away to the eastward, whither our bowsprit pointed, a white-sailed
clipper grew larger as we approached her. The Danish ensign flew at
her mizzen; the familiar signal for a pilot streamed from her fore
peak. My heart beat quicker, telling me who was aboard this fair
vessel as nearer and nearer we drew. Now we could distinguish the
tiny figures moving about her yards, as one by one her studding
sails were taken in.
Sitting in the stern sheets of my own pilot boat, I watched and
watched for some sign on the ship's quarterdeck. At last a white
object appeared over the rail, waving with regular motion. I took
out my handkerchief and unfurled it in reply, still with faster
beating heart.
"Lower away, my lads!" I cried, putting the helm to starboard.
"Ay, ay, sir," responded Willie Hercus, who had left the Clasper
and was now our mate.
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