But six or eight feet forward of these things, and in the midst of a clear space of deck, was a shallow square box full of sand, and on that was set the covered kettle of which our comrade spoke.  The sandbox was that on which a fire might be lighted at sea if need were, but none had been used on it as yet.  Hard by were two casks lashed to ringbolts on deck, one of which was covered, and the other had a spigot in it.  They held oatcake in one, and water in the other, as perhaps one might have expected, here where the men of the crew would gather forward.  And the kettle was full of boiled meat, which was maybe the most welcome sight to us that we could have looked on.  For, if we had managed to forget it, we were famished.

So then and there we made a royal meal, asking not at all what the meat might be, only knowing that it was good, thanks to the unknown hands which had made it ready.  There was enough in that great sea cauldron for two more such meals as this, and the oatcake barrel was full.  We had no fear of hunger again for a time, and if there was no more to be found by the time this store was ended, we should surely have found haven or help in some way, most likely by the coming of some ship in search with the morning at latest.

Now, as I sat on the deck and ate, once and again came to me that sharp smell of peat smoke, and at last I spoke of it, asking if the others had not smelt it.

“I smell somewhat strange to me,” said Bertric.  “It is a pleasant smell enough.  What is amiss with it?”

“What, do your folk in England use no peat?” said Dalfin in surprise.  “Why, we should hardly know how to make a fire without it.  It is peat smoke you smell.”

“Why, then, there must be fire somewhere!” said Bertric, leaping up.

“Smouldering peat, certainly,” I said, rising with him.  “Under yon fagots is the only place I can think of as possible—­or under the deck planking.”

We went to the penthouse, and climbed on the piles of fagots on the port side.  When we trimmed sail afresh we had hauled it along the starboard, and had at least smelt nothing of the smoke there.  But now we set to work and hove the fagots overboard, setting the handsome sledge from off them forward out of the way.  The peat smoke grew stronger as we lowered the pile, and at last a little cloud of blue smoke came up to us.

“No hurry,” said I to Bertric, who was anxious, “there is no wind to fan the turfs into flame.  It can but smoulder slowly.”

“It is here,” cried Dalfin, lifting a fagot whose under side was scorched and blackened, though more by heat and smoke than flame.

Under that was a bushel or so of peat, the midst of which was but a black hollow, round the sides of which the fire glowed red, only waiting for the wind to fan it into life.  The turfs blazed a little in the draught as we cast them overboard quickly.  Then we sent all the fagots on that side after them.