ship were a hundred and twenty companions.

The voyage had started well, but now the captain looked anxious as he
peered out under his curved hand, looking first south and then north.
There was danger in both directions.

The breeze from the south stiffened to a gale. The mast creaked and
strained as the gathering storm tore at the mainsail. The ship reeled
and pitched as the spiteful waves smote her high bow and swept hissing
and gurgling along the deck. She began to jib like a horse and refused
to obey her rudder. Wind and current were carrying her out of her
course.

In spite of all the captain's sea-craft the ship was being driven
nearer to the dreaded, low, shingle beach of the island that stretched
along the northern edge of the sea. The captain did not fear the
coast itself, for it had no rocks. But the lines deepened on his
weather-scarred face as he saw, gathering on the shelving beach, the
wild, yellow-haired men of the island.

The ship was being carried nearer and nearer to the coast. All on
board could now see the Men of the Shingle Beach waving their spears
and axes.

The current and the wind swung the ship still closer to the shore, and
now--even above the whistle of the gale in the cordage--the crew heard
the wild whoop of the wreckers. These men on the beach were the sons
of pirates. But they were now cowards compared with their fathers. For
they no longer lived by the wild sea-rover's fight that had made
their fathers' blood leap with the joy of the battle. They lived by