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"--
_Don Quixote_.
Night fell, and the xebec had made no further motion to attack: but
yet, as the calm held, Captain Pomery continued gloomy; nor did his
gloom lift at all when the enemy, as soon as it was thoroughly dark,
began to burn flares and torches.
"That will be a signal to the shore," said he. "Though, please God,
they are too far for it to reach."
The illumination served us in one way. While it lasted, no boat
could push out from the xebec without our perceiving it. The fires
lasted until after eight bells, when the captain, believing that he
scented a breeze ahead, turned us out into the boat again, to tow the
ketch toward it. For my part, I tugged and sweated, but scented no
breeze. On the contrary, the night seemed intolerably close and
sultry, as though brooding a thunderstorm. When the xebec's fires
died down, darkness settled on us like a cap. The only light came
from the water, where our oars swirled it in pools of briming,[1] or
the tow-rope dropped for a moment and left for another moment a trail
of fire.


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