He's utterly disgusting in his glee."
From the quarter-deck, where he moved amid the frenzy of preparation,
the Admiral had turned to flash a backward glance at his prisoners.
His eyes were alight, his face transfigured. He flung out an arm to
point to the advancing ship, and bawled something in Spanish that
was lost to them in the noise of the labouring crew.
They advanced to the poop-rail, and watched the bustle. Telescope
in hand on the quarter-deck, Don Miguel was issuing his orders.
Already the gunners were kindling their matches; sailors were aloft,
taking in sail; others were spreading a stout rope net above the
waist, as a protection against falling spars. And meanwhile Don
Miguel had been signalling to his consort, in response to which the
Hidalga had drawn steadily forward until she was now abeam of the
Milagrosa, half cable's length to starboard, and from the height of
the tall poop my lord and Miss Bishop could see her own bustle of
preparation. And they could discern signs of it now aboard the
advancing English ship as well.
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