“Ahoy, the boat—­there is not too much sea?  You can make it?”

“Ay!” came back Estada’s voice, swept aside by the wind, yet still audible.  “Stand by to fend us off.  Call all hands, and break anchor as soon as we are aboard.”

“Very well, sir.  Where is Captain Sanchez?”

Estada pointed downward in swift, expressive gesture.

“Here at my feet—­badly hurt, but will recover.  Send two men down to help when we make fast.  Now, Cochose—­let go of your rope; watch out above!”

I stood, gripping hard at the rail, and staring down at the scene below, as the men in the boat made fast.  I felt paralyzed, and helpless, unable to move.  I had no business to remain there; every prospect of security depended on my joining the crew, but it was not in my power to desert my position.  I could hear the hurrying feet of the watch tramping across the deck in response to LeVere’s orders; the heavy pounding of a marling-spike on the forecastle hatch, as Haines called for all hands.  I was aware that men were already mounting the ratlines, and laying out on the upper yards to make sail, while the capstan bars began rattling.  Yet only one thought gripped me—­Sanchez was not dead!  I had believed he was; I had staked all on his death as a certainty.  But instead, the man was lying there in the boat, helpless at present, sorely wounded perhaps, yet still alive.  Estada even said he would surely recover.  And that other body?  That of Dorothy Fairfax, without doubt, yet certainly not lifeless.  Those fellows would surely never bring back to the Namur the useless, dead form of one of their victims.  That was unthinkable, impossible.  If their prisoner was the girl—­and who else could it be?—­she remained alive, helplessly bound to prevent either struggle, or outcry, and destined to a fate far worse than death.

This revelation struck me like a blow.  I had anticipated the possible capture of the young woman, but not the return of Sanchez.  His living overthrew all my plans.  There was no hope in the narrow confines of the ship for me to remain long out of his sight, once he became able again to reach the deck.  And he would instantly recognize me in any guise.  Every hope of rescue had vanished, every faith that I could be of aid.  My own life hung in the balance—­nay, rather, my doom was already sealed.  There, seemingly was but one chance for escape left—­that was to drop silently overboard, amid the confusion of getting under way, and make the desperate attempt to reach shore unseen before the crew could lift anchor, and set sail.  This possibility came to me, yet I continued to cling there, dazed and helpless, staring dully down, lacking both physical and mental energy to put the wild scheme into execution.  God, no! that would be the craven act of a coward.  Better far to stay, and kill, or even be killed, than to be forever cursed by my own conscience.  The fellow might die; some fatal accident befall the Namur; why a hundred things might occur before Sanchez was capable of resuming command, or could attempt any serious injury to Dorothy.