Tita looked up at the huge speaker, and obeyed in silence.  The intendant heard him enter the colonel’s cabin, and then a short scuffle, and silence for a moment.

But only for a moment; for already the alarm had been given, and mad confusion reigned through every deck.  Amyas (for it was none other) had already gained the poop; the sentinels were gagged and bound; and every half-naked wretch who came trembling up on deck in his shirt by the main hatchway, calling one, “Fire!” another, “Wreck!” and another, “Treason!” was hurled into the scuppers, and there secured.

“Lower away that boat!” shouted Amyas in Spanish to his first batch of prisoners.

The men, unarmed and naked, could but obey.

“Now then, jump in.  Here, hand them to the gangway as they come up.”

It was done; and as each appeared he was kicked to the scuppers, and bundled down over the side.

“She’s full.  Cast loose now and off with you.  If you try to board again we’ll sink you.”

“Fire! fire!” shouted Cary, forward.  “Up the main hatchway for your lives!”

The ruse succeeded utterly; and before half-an-hour was over, all the ship’s boats which could be lowered were filled with Spaniards in their shirts, getting ashore as best they could.

“Here is a new sort of camisado,” quoth Cary.  “The last Spanish one I saw was at the sortie from Smerwick:  but this is somewhat more prosperous than that.”

“Get the main and foresail up, Will!” said Amyas, “cut the cable; and we will plume the quarry as we fly.”

“Spoken like a good falconer.  Heaven grant that this big woodcock may carry a good trail inside!”

“I’ll warrant her for that,” said Jack Brimblecombe.  “She floats so low.”

“Much of your build, too, Jack.  By the by, where is the commander?”

Alas!  Don Pedro, forgotten in the bustle, had been lying on the deck in his shirt, helplessly bound, exhausting that part of his vocabulary which related to the unseen world.  Which most discourteous act seemed at first likely to be somewhat heavily avenged on Amyas; for as he spoke, a couple of caliver-shots, fired from under the poop, passed “ping” “ping” by his ears, and Cary clapped his hand to his side.

“Hurt, Will?”

“A pinch, old lad—­Look out, or we are ‘allen verloren’ after all, as the Flemings say.”

And as he spoke, a rush forward on the poop drove two of their best men down the ladder into the waist, where Amyas stood.

“Killed?” asked he, as he picked one up, who had fallen head over heels.

“Sound as a bell, sir:  but they Gentiles has got hold of the firearms, and set the captain free.”

And rubbing the back of his head for a minute, he jumped up the ladder again, shouting—­

“Have at ye, idolatrous pagans!  Have at ye, Satan’s spawn!”

Amyas jumped up after him, shouting to all hands to follow; for there was no time to be lost.