These were questions impossible to answer.  I could not even attempt their solution.  No gleam of light appeared in any direction; no sound echoed across the dark waste of water.  Far above, barely visible through a floating veil of haze, I was able to detect the faint gleam of stars, and was sailor enough to determine through their guidance some certainty as to the points of compass; yet possessed no means by which to ascertain the time of night, or the position of the boat.  With this handicap it was clearly impossible for me to attempt any return to the wharf through the impenetrable black curtain which shut me in.  What then could I do?  What might I still hope to accomplish?  At first thought the case appeared hopeless.  Those fellows had swept the sloop clean, and had doubtless long ago scuttled it.  This ruthless deed once accomplished, their orders were to raid the house on the bluff.  But would they go on with their bloody work?  They would suddenly find themselves leaderless, unguided.  Would that suffice to stop them?  The vivid memory came to me anew of that arch villain, Sanchez, lying where I had left him, his head resting in the surf—­dead.  Would the discovery of his body halt his followers, and send them rushing back to their boat, eager only to get safely away?  This did not seem likely.  Estada knew of my boarding the sloop from the wharf, and would at once connect the fact of my being ashore with the killing of Sanchez.  This would satisfy him there was no further danger.  Besides, these were not men to be easily frightened at sight of a dead body, even that of their own captain.  They might hesitate, discuss, but they would never flee in panic.  Surely not with that ruffian Estada yet alive to lead them, and the knowledge that fifty thousand pounds was yonder in that unguarded house, with no one to protect the treasure but two old men asleep, and the women.  The women!—­Dorothy!  What would become of her?  Into whose hands would she fall in that foul division of spoils?  Estada’s?  Good God—­yes!  And I, afloat and helpless in this boat, what could I do?

CHAPTER IX

A SWIM TO THE NAMUR

All was black, hopeless; with head buried in my hands I sat on a thwart, dazed and stupefied, seemingly even unable to think clearly.  Before me, pleading, expressive of agonized despair, arose the sweet face of Dorothy Fairfax.  Nothing else counted with me at that moment but her safety—­the protecting her from the touch of that blood-stained brute.  Yet how, and through what means, could such rescue be accomplished?  No doubt by this time all was over—­the dead body of Sanchez discovered, the projected attack on the house carried out, the two old men left behind, either dead or severely wounded, and the girl borne off a helpless prisoner, together with the treasure of fifty thousand pounds.  Even if I knew where the drifting boat had taken me, which way to turn to once again attain the wharf, the probability