Corrie was now thoroughly convinced of the good intentions of Gascoyne; so he followed him without hesitation.  Indeed, now that he had an opportunity of seeing a little more of his gigantic companion, he began to feel a strange kind of pity and liking for him, but he shuddered and felt repelled when he thought of the human blood in which his hands must have been imbrued; for as yet he had not heard of the defense of himself which Gascoyne had made in the widow’s cottage.  But he had not much time to think; for in a few minutes they came upon Ole Thorwald and his party.

“Follow me quietly,” said Gascoyne.  “Keep in single file and close together; for if we are separated here, we shall not easily get together again.”

Leading them over the same ground that he had formerly traversed, Gascoyne conducted his party to the shores of the bay where the Foam lay at anchor.  Here he made them keep close in the bushes, with directions to be ready to act the instant he should call on them to do so.

“But it would comfort me mightily, Mister Gascoyne,” said Thorwald, in a somewhat troubled voice, “if you would give some instructions or advice as to what I am to do in the event of your plans miscarrying.  I care naught for a fair fight in open field; but I do confess to a dislike of being brought to the condition of not knowing what to do.”

“It won’t matter much what you do, Mr. Thorwald,” said Gascoyne, gravely.  “If my plans miscarry, you will be killed every soul of you.  You’ll not have the ghost of a chance of escaping.”

Ole opened his eyes uncommonly wide at this.

“Well,” said he, at length, with a sigh of resignation, “it’s some comfort to know that one can only be killed once.”

Gascoyne now proceeded leisurely to strip off his shirt, thereby displaying a chest, back, and arms in which the muscles were developed to an extent that might have made Hercules himself envious.  Kicking off his boots, he reduced his clothing to a pair of loose knee-breeches.

“’Tis a strange time to indulge in a cold bath!” murmured Thorwald, whose state of surprise was beginning to render him desperately ironical.

Gascoyne took no notice of the remark, but calling Corrie to his side, said: 

“Can you swim, boy?”

“Yes, like a duck.”

“Can you distinguish the stem of the schooner?”

“I can.”

“Listen, then.  When you see a white sheet waved over the taffrail, throw off your jacket and shirt and swim out to the schooner.  D’ye understand?”

“Perfectly,” replied the boy, whose decision of manner and action grew with the occasion.

“And now, Mr. Thorwald,” said Gascoyne, “I shall swim off to the schooner.  If, as I expect, the men are on shore in a place that I wot of, and with which you have nothing to do, well and good.  I will send a boat for you with muffled oars; but, mark you, let there be no noise in embarking or in getting aboard the schooner.  If, on the other hand, the men are aboard, I will bring a boat to you myself, in which case silence will not be so necessary, and your fighting powers shall be put to the proof.”