“Is there a hand at the wheel, Watkins?”

“No sir; it’s lashed.”

“And the quarter-boat?”

“There, sir, below the mizzen-chains.”

“Then there is nothing more to keep us aboard lads.  Stow yourselves away and hang on; I’ll wait here until you are all over.”

They faded away into the mist, dim spectral figures, and I remained alone, listening anxiously for some hostile sound from below.  Had I chosen the right course?  I was not altogether sure, yet we had gone too far now to decide on any other.  Perhaps if I had called on those men up on deck, who had loaded guns, we might have forced the escaped prisoners back into their place of confinement, and thus kept control of the vessel.  Yet at that it would only mean a few hours more on board amid constant danger of revolt.  It might have enabled us to salvage the gold hidden below, but I was not greatly concerned for this, as my one and only purpose was the preservation of Dorothy.  The men might prove ugly when they awoke to the loss, but I had little fear of them, once we were at sea in the small boats, and their lives depended on my seamanship.  Unless a storm arose our lives were in no great peril, although I would have preferred being closer to the coast before casting adrift.  I wondered what could be the meaning of that silence below.  True the fellows were leaderless and defeated, yet they were desperate spirits, and fully aware that they must attain the open deck in order to recapture the vessel.  They would not remain quiet long, and once discovering our retirement, would swarm up the stairs animated with fresh courage.  Satisfied that the lads were safely over the rail and the decks clear, I turned toward the ship’s side.  As I did so a yell reached my ears from the blackness below—­the hounds had found voice.

I ran through the fog in the direction the others had disappeared, and had taken scarcely three steps when I collided against the form of a man, whose presence was not even noticed until we came together.  Yet he must have been there expectant and ready, for a quick knife thrust slashed the front of my jacket, bringing a spurt of blood as the blade was jerked back.  It was a well-aimed blow at the heart, missing its mark only because of my outstretched arms, and the rapidity of my advance.  Even as my fingers gripped the uplifted wrist, ’ere he could strike the second time, I knew my antagonist.  I knew also this was a fight to the death, a sharp remorseless struggle to be terminated before that unguarded crew below could attain the deck.  It was LeVere’s life or mine, and in the balance the fate of those others in the waiting boat alongside.  The knowledge gave me the strength and ferocity of a tiger; all the hate and distrust I felt for the man came uppermost.  In that moment of rage I did not so much care what happened to me, if I was only privileged to kill him.  I ripped the knife from his fingers, and we closed