“Cast off her hand,” said Spike reproachfully, “she’ll swamp the boat by her struggles—­get rid of her at once!  Cut her fingers off, if she wont let go!”

The instant these brutal orders were given, and that in a fierce, impatient tone, the voice of Biddy was heard no more.  The truth forced itself on her dull imagination, and she sat a witness of the terrible scene, in mute despair.  The struggle did not last long.  The boatswain drew his knife across the wrist of the hand that grasped his own, one shriek was heard, and the boat plunged into the trough of a sea, leaving the form of poor Mrs. Budd struggling with the wave on its summit, and amid the foam of its crest.  This was the last that was ever seen of the unfortunate relict.

“The boat has gained a good deal by that last discharge of cargo,” said Spike to the boatswain, a minute after they had gotten rid of the struggling woman—­“she is much more lively, and is getting nearer to her load-line.  If we can bring her to that, I shall have no fear of the man-of-war’s men; for this yawl is one of the fastest boats that ever floated.”

“A very little now, sir, would bring us to our true trim.”

“Ay, we must get rid of more cargo.  Come, good woman,” turning to Biddy, with whom he did not think it worth his while to use much circumlocution, “your turn is next.  It’s the maid’s duty to follow her mistress.”

“I know’d it must come,” said Biddy, meekly.  “If there was no mercy for the missus, little could I look for.  But ye’ll not take the life of a Christian woman widout giving her so much as one minute to say her prayers?”

“Ay, pray away,” answered Spike, his throat becoming dry and husky, for, strange to say, the submissive quiet of the Irish woman, so different from the struggle he had anticipated with her, rendered him more reluctant to proceed than he had hitherto been in all of that terrible day.  As Biddy kneeled in the bottom of the stern-sheets, Spike looked behind him, for the double purpose of escaping the painful spectacle at his feet, and that of ascertaining how his pursuers came on.  The last still gained, though very slowly, and doubts began to come over the captain’s mind whether he could escape such enemies at all.  He was too deeply committed, however, to recede, and it was most desirable to get rid of poor Biddy, if it were for no other motive than to shut her mouth.  Spike even fancied that some idea of what had passed was entertained by those in the cutter.  There was evidently a stir in that boat, and two forms that he had no difficulty, now, in recognizing as those of Wallace and Mulford, were standing on the grating in the eyes of the cutter, or forward of the foresail.  The former appeared to have a musket in his hand, and the other a glass.  The last circumstance admonished him that all that was now done would be done before dangerous witnesses.  It was too late to draw back, however, and the captain turned to look for the Irish woman.