“Where away?” cried the captain.

“Right ahead,” sang out the man.

“I’ll run her ashore sooner than be taken,” muttered the captain, with an angry scowl at the schooner, which was now almost within range on the weather quarter, with the dreaded black flag flying at her peak.  In a few minutes breakers were descried ahead.

“D’ye see anything like a passage?” shouted the captain.

“Yes, sir; two points on the weather bow.”

At this moment a white cloud burst from the schooner’s bow, and a shot, evidently from a heavy gun, came ricochetting over the sea.  It was well aimed, for it cut right through the barque’s main-mast, just below the yard, and brought the main-top-mast, with all the yards, sails, and gearing above it, down upon the deck.  The weight of the wreck, also, carried away the fore-top-mast, and, in a single instant, the Firefly was completely disabled.

“Lower away the boats,” cried the captain; “look alive, now; we’ll give them the slip yet.  It’ll be dark in two minutes.”

The captain was right.  In tropical regions there is little or no twilight.  Night succeeds day almost instantaneously.  Before the boats were lowered and the men embarked it was becoming quite dark.  The schooner observed the movement, however, and, as she did not dare to venture through the reef in the dark, her boats were also lowered and the chase was recommenced.

The reef was passed in safety, and now a hard struggle took place, for the shore was still far distant.  As it chanced to be cloudy weather the darkness became intense, and progress could only be guessed at by the sound of the oars; but these soon told too plainly that the boats of the schooner were overtaking those of the barque.

“Pull with a will, lads,” cried the captain; “we can’t be more than half a mile from shore; give way, my hearties.”

“Surely, captain, we can fight them, we’ve most of us got pistols and cutlasses,” said one of the men in a sulky tone.

“Fight them!” cried the captain, “they’re four times our number, and every man armed to the teeth.  If ye don’t fancy walking the plank or dancing on nothing at the yard-arm, ye’d better pull away and hold your jaw.”

By this time they could just see the schooner’s boats in the dim light, about half-musket range astern.

“Back you’ oars,” shouted a stern voice in broken English, “or I blow you out de watter in one oder moment,—­black-yards!”

This order was enforced by a musket shot, which whizzed over the boat within an inch of the captain’s head.  The men ceased rowing and the boats of the pirate ranged close up.

“Now then, Martin,” whispered Barney O’Flannagan, who sat at the bow oar, “I’m goin’ to swim ashore; jist you slip arter me as quiet as ye can.”

“But the sharks!” suggested Martin.

“Bad luck to them,” said Barney as he slipped over the side, “they’re welcome to me.  Til take my chance.  They’ll find me mortial tough, anyhow.  Come along, lad, look sharp!”