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“Damn the place!” cried Harman, whose nerves were on edge. “It’s clangin’ and prayin’ and stinkin’ all day and closes down only to go off in your face—some saint’s day or ’nuther, I expect.”

Davis said nothing. He was watching the blue and pink of bursting rockets and the fiery, fuzzy worms reflecting themselves in the harbour.

They had seen several boats stealthily approaching the Douro. Everything seemed going to time and the wind was steady.

An hour passed during which Buenodiaz, forgetting saints and frivolity, fell asleep, leaving the world to the keeping of the moon.

Convents, churches and cathedral were chiming midnight when the Kanakas, having crowded into the boat of the Araya, Davis and Harman got into the stem sheets and pushed off.

As they drew close, the Douro, with her anchor light burning, showed no sign of life, bow to the sea on a taut anchor chain, she rode the flooding tide, she seemed nodding to them as she pitched gently to the heave of the swell, and as they rubbed up alongside and Harman grasped the rail, he saw that the deck was clear.