“That’s it, bullies! that’s it!  Now let her drop!  We’ll send them to hell where they belong.  Good shot; she landed!”

It was the hank of a spare anchor, balanced for an instant on the rail, then sent crashing down through the frail bottom of the boat beneath.  The wreck drifted away into the fog, the two miserable occupants clinging desperately to the gunwales.  I lifted Dorothy to her feet, and she clung to me unsteadily, her face yet white.

“Is it all over?  Have they been driven off?”

“Yes, there is nothing more to fear from them.  Were you injured?” “Not—­not seriously; he hurt me terribly, but made no attempt to use his cutlass.  I—­I guess I was more frightened than anything else.  Is—­is the man dead?”

“If not, he might as well be,” I answered, glancing at the body; but not caring to explain.  “It was no time for mercy when I got to him.  Watkins.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Have you figured up results?”

“Not fully, sir; two of our men are cut rather badly, and Cole hasn’t come too yet from a smart rap on the head.”

“None got away?”

He grinned cheerfully.

“Not ’less they swum; thar’s six dead ones aboard.  Four took ter the water, mostly because they hed too.  The only livin’ one o’ the bunch is thet nigger ‘longside the wheel, an’ nuthin’ but a thick skull saved him.”

“Then there were eleven in the party.  What do you suppose has become of the others aboard the Namur?”

He shook his head, puzzled by the question.

“I dunno, sir; they might be a waitin’ out there in the fog.  Perhaps the nigger cud tell you.”

I crossed over to where the fellow sat on a grating, his head in his hands, the girl still clinging to my sleeve, as though fearful of being left alone.  The man was a repulsive brute, his face stained with blood, dripping from a cut across his low forehead.  He looked up sullenly at our approach, but made no effort to rise.

“What’s your name, my man?” I asked in Spanish.

“Jose Mendez, Senor.”  “You were aboard the Namur?”

He growled out an answer which I interpreted to signify assent, but Watkins lost his temper.

“Look yere, you black villain,” he roared, driving the lesson home with his boot “don’t be a playin’ possum yer.  Stand up an’ answer Mister Carlyle, or yer’ll git a worse clip than I give yer afore.  Whar is the bloody bark?”

“Pounding her heart out on the rocks yonder,” he said more civilly, “unless she’s slid off, an’ gone down.”

“Wrecked?  Where?”

“Hell, I ain’t sure—­what’s west frum here?”

“Off our port quarter.”

“Then that’s ’bout where she is—­maybe a mile, er so.”

“What about the crew?”

“They got away in the boats, an’ likely mostly are ashore.  We were in the last boat launched, an’ headed out so far ter get ’round a ledge o’ rocks, we got lost in the fog.  Then the mist sorter opened, an’ give us a glimpse o’ yer topsails.  Manuel was for boarding you right away, and the rest of us talked it over, and thought it would be all right.  We didn’t expect no fight, once we got aboard.”