The dull crash of a pebble against Frank’s fair head!  Drooping like Hyacinthus beneath the blow of the quoit, he sank on Amyas’s arm.  The giant threw him over his shoulder, and plunged blindly on,—­himself struck again and again.

“Fire, men!  Give it the black villains!”

The arquebuses crackled from the boat in front.  What were those dull thuds which answered from behind?  Echoes?  No.  Over his head the caliver-balls went screeching.  The governors’ guard have turned out, followed them to the beach, fixed their calivers, and are firing over the negroes’ heads, as the savages rush down upon the hapless brothers.

If, as all say, there are moments which are hours, how many hours was Amyas Leigh in reaching that boat’s bow?  Alas! the negroes are there as soon as he, and the guard, having left their calivers, are close behind them, sword in hand.  Amyas is up to his knees in water—­battered with stones—­blinded with blood.  The boat is swaying off and on against the steep pebble-bank:  he clutches at it—­misses—­falls headlong—­rises half-choked with water:  but Frank is still in his arms.  Another heavy blow—­a confused roar of shouts, shots, curses—­a confused mass of negroes and English, foam and pebbles—­and he recollects no more.

* * * * *

He is lying in the stern-sheets of the boat; stiff, weak, half blind with blood.  He looks up; the moon is still bright overhead:  but they are away from the shore now, for the wave-crests are dancing white before the land-breeze, high above the boat’s side.  The boat seems strangely empty.  Two men are pulling instead of six!  And what is this lying heavy across his chest?  He pushes, and is answered by a groan.  He puts his hand down to rise, and is answered by another groan.

“What’s this?”

“All that are left of us,” says Simon Evans of Clovelly.

“All?” The bottom of the boat seemed paved with human bodies.  “Oh God! oh God!” moans Amyas, trying to rise.  “And where—­where is Frank?  Frank!”

“Mr. Frank!” cries Evans.  There is no answer.

“Dead?” shrieks Amyas.  “Look for him, for God’s sake, look!” and struggling from under his living load, he peers into each pale and bleeding face.

“Where is he?  Why don’t you speak, forward there?”

“Because we have naught to say, sir,” answers Evans, almost surlily.

Frank was not there.

“Put the boat about!  To the shore!” roars Amyas.

“Look over the gunwale, and judge for yourself, sir!”

The waves are leaping fierce and high before a furious land-breeze.  Return is impossible.

“Cowards! villains! traitors! hounds! to have left him behind.”

“Listen you to me, Captain Amyas Leigh,” says Simon Evans, resting on his oar; “and hang me for mutiny, if you will, when we’re aboard, if we ever get there.  Isn’t it enough to bring us out to death (as you knew yourself, sir, for you’re prudent enough) to please that poor young gentleman’s fancy about a wench; but you must call coward an honest man that have saved your life this night, and not a one of us but has his wound to show?”