Careful as I was, I yet dislodged one or two clods of earth as I climbed, which fell with a dull splash into the water.  I went cold with apprehension, and clung to the face of the bank, not daring to make a movement.  There were no fowl upon the moat; the splash I had made was louder than any frog could have made; surely the unaccustomed sound must this time have caught the sentry’s ear!  But all was silent; maybe he was asleep; and in another few moments I gained the top of the bank, breathless, rather, I suspect, from excitement than exertion.

It seemed a very long time since I had left my comrades above:  doubtless it had seemed even longer to them.  So, after the briefest of pauses to recover my breath, I gave three sharp tugs upon the bast line, which were immediately answered by three similar tugs:  this was the signal I had arranged with Joe.  The tension on the line was relaxed; Joe, hauling at the rope, was drawing the raft gently back across the moat to its former position at the foot of the wall.  There was a short interval; then I knew from the jerking of the bast line that a man was descending the rope, and when he was almost level with me I saw his form very dimly.  When I learned from the cessation of the jerks that he was safe on the raft, I hauled in my line, ferried the man across, and, leaning over, gave him a helping hand up the bank.  It was little Runnles.

“I’ve got my flute, sir,” he whispered with strange inconsequence as he came to my side.

“Lie on the ground and don’t stir,” I whispered back.

Again I gave three tugs, and the same sequence of events ensued.  One by one the men came down the rope, crossed the moat on the raft, and joined me on the bank.  We had no difficulty with any of them but the bosun, whose massy frame so much depressed the raft that it took the united exertions of six of us to haul it through the upper layer of mud.

Joe Punchard came last of all.  When with his arrival our little party of ten was complete, we crawled on hands and knees one by one to the shelter of a thicket that stood some fifty yards away, and then consulted in whispers how we were to shape our course.

Chapter 17:  Exchanges.

I have been many a time surprised to observe the strange volatility of sailormen.  They will pass in an instant from jollity to woe, and, when just snatched from the jaws of death, will give the rein to jests and sportiveness as if life were nothing but a perpetual holiday.  Some of my comrades were perfectly hilarious, and began to talk and laugh as freely as they might in the forecastle, far from a hostile shore.  I had to warn them very earnestly against so imperiling the safety of us all; but Joe Punchard’s admonitions were more effective than mine, for in a harsh whisper he roundly abused them, threatening with many offensive terms to leave them to their fate if they did not instantly cease and obey me as their captain.