Peter ground his teeth in rage and disappointment; almost he could have wept, for the vessels swung apart again, and his chance was gone.
"Five times out of seven," he said bitterly, "can I send a shaft through a bull's ring at fifty paces to win a village badge, and now I cannot hit a man to save my love from shame.

Surely God has forsaken me!" Through all that afternoon they held on, shooting with their bows whenever a Spaniard showed himself, and being shot at in return, though little damage was done to either side.

But this they noted--that the _San Antonio_ had sprung a leak in the gale, for she was sinking deeper in the water.

The Spaniards knew it also, and, being aware that they must either run ashore or founder, for the second time put about, and, under the rain of English arrows, came right across the bows of the _Margaret_, heading for the little bay of Calahonda, that is the port of Motril, for here the shore was not much more than a league away.
"Now," said Jacob Smith, the captain of the _Margaret_, who stood under the shelter of the bulwarks with Castell and Peter, "up that bay lies a Spanish town.

I know it, for I have anchored there, and if once the _San Antonio_ reaches it, good-bye to our lady, for they will take her to Granada, not thirty miles away across the mountains, where this Marquis of Morella is a mighty man, for there is his palace.