“Row, men—­it is for life!  If they overtake us it is a question between death, and slavery among the Moors.”

A sudden exclamation from one of the men caused the captain to glance round again at the galley.  She was alone now on the water—­the trader had sunk!

“Do you take the helm, signor,” the captain said.  “All hands will help at the oars.”

Some of the oars were double banked, and beneath the strength of the twenty men, the boat moved fast through the water.  The galley was now rowing all her oars, and in full pursuit.  For a quarter of an hour not a word was spoken.  Every man on board was doing his utmost.  Francis had glanced backwards several times, and at the end of a quarter of an hour, he could see that the distance between the boat and her pursuer had distinctly lessened.

“Is she gaining on us?” the captain asked, for the cabin in the stern hid the galley from the sight of the oarsmen.

“She is gaining,” Francis said quietly, “but not rapidly.  Row steadily, my lads, and do not despair.  When they find how slowly they gain, they may give up the chase and think us not worth the trouble.

“Jacopo,” he said to an old sailor who was rowing in the bow, and who already was getting exhausted from the exertion, “do you lay in your oar and come aft.  I will take your place.”

At the end of an hour the galley was little more than a quarter of a mile away.

“We had better stop,” the captain said.  “We have no chance of getting away, and the longer the chase the more furious they will be.  What do you think, signor?”

“I agree with you,” Francis replied.  “We have done all that we could.  There is no use in rowing longer.”

The oars fell motionless in the water, and a few minutes later the long galley came rushing up by their side.

“A fine row you have given us, you dogs!” a man shouted angrily as she came alongside.  “If you haven’t something on board that will pay us for the chase we have had, it will be the worse for you.  What boat is that?”

“It is the Naxos, and belongs to Messer Polani of Venice.  We are bound to Corfu, and bear letters from the padrone to his agent there.  We have no cargo on board.”

“The letters, perhaps, may be worth more than any cargo such a boat would carry.  So come on board, and let us see what the excellent Polani says to his agent.  Now, make haste all of you, or it will be the worse for you.”

It was useless hesitating.  The captain, Francis, and the crew stepped on board the galley.

“Just look round her,” the captain said to one of his sailors.  “If there is anything worth taking, take it, and then knock a hole in her bottom with your axe.”

Francis, as he stepped on board the galley, looked round at the crew.  They were not Genoese, as he had expected, but a mixture of ruffians from all the ports in the Mediterranean, as he saw at once by their costumes.  Some were Greeks from the islands, some Smyrniots, Moors, and Spaniards; but the Moors predominated, nearly half the crew belonging to that race.