The sound came on in a regular tune, and as I lay hidden, I fancied the tune so played to be, “Chris’en—­George—­King!  Chris’en—­George—­King!  Chris’en—­George—­King!” over and over again, always the same, with the pauses always at the same places.  I had likewise time to make up my mind that if these were the Pirates, I could and would (barring my being shot) swim off to my raft, in spite of my wound, the moment I had given the alarm, and hold my old post by Miss Maryon.

“Chris’en—­George—­King!  Chris’en—­George—­King!  Chris’en—­George—­King!” coming up, now, very near.

I took a look at the branches about me, to see where a shower of bullets would be most likely to do me least hurt; and I took a look back at the track I had made in forcing my way in; and now I was wholly prepared and fully ready for them.

“Chris’en—­George—­King!  Chris’en—­George—­King!  Chris’en—­George—­King!” Here they are!

Who were they?  The barbarous Pirates, scum of all nations, headed by such men as the hideous little Portuguese monkey, and the one-eyed English convict with the gash across his face, that ought to have gashed his wicked head off?  The worst men in the world picked out from the worst, to do the cruellest and most atrocious deeds that ever stained it?  The howling, murdering, black-flag waving, mad, and drunken crowd of devils that had overcome us by numbers and by treachery?  No.  These were English men in English boats—­good blue-jackets and red-coats—­marines that I knew myself, and sailors that knew our seamen!  At the helm of the first boat, Captain Carton, eager and steady.  At the helm of the second boat, Captain Maryon, brave and bold.  At the helm of the third boat, an old seaman, with determination carved into his watchful face, like the figure-head of a ship.  Every man doubly and trebly armed from head to foot.  Every man lying-to at his work, with a will that had all his heart and soul in it.  Every man looking out for any trace of friend or enemy, and burning to be the first to do good or avenge evil.  Every man with his face on fire when he saw me, his countryman who had been taken prisoner, and hailed me with a cheer, as Captain Carton’s boat ran in and took me on board.

I reported, “All escaped, sir!  All well, all safe, all here!”

God bless me—­and God bless them—­what a cheer!  It turned me weak, as I was passed on from hand to hand to the stern of the boat:  every hand patting me or grasping me in some way or other, in the moment of my going by.

“Hold up, my brave fellow,” says Captain Carton, clapping me on the shoulder like a friend, and giving me a flask.  “Put your lips to that, and they’ll be red again.  Now, boys, give way!”

The banks flew by us as if the mightiest stream that ever ran was with us; and so it was, I am sure, meaning the stream to those men’s ardour and spirit.  The banks flew by us, and we came in sight of the rafts—­the banks flew by us, and we came alongside of the rafts—­the banks stopped; and there was a tumult of laughing and crying, and kissing and shaking of hands, and catching up of children and setting of them down again, and a wild hurry of thankfulness and joy that melted every one and softened all hearts.