“No flag at all.  Neither of them.  They’re both making for the rock, full steam, and from opposite sides.  Neither can see the other, I suppose.  I—­”

“From opposite sides?  That doesn’t look like a joint expedition.  One of those ships isn’t Russian.  But which?”

Jack had clambered down and stood by Alan’s side.

“We must make ready for defense in either case,” he said.  “In a few minutes we’ll be able to see them both from the platform below.”

“One of those boats means to blow us out of existence if it can,” mused Jack.  “The other cannot know of our existence.  And yet, if she doesn’t, what is she doing here, headed for the rock?”

With that Jack scrambled, slid and jumped down.  Drummond was very quiet and serious.  Repeating rifles stood in a row on the opposite wall, easy to get at, but as far off as might be from the effects of a possible shell.  The two young men now mounted the stone bench by the door, which allowed them to look over the ledge at the eastern sea.  Presently the craft appeared round the end of the island, pure white, floating like a swan on the water, and making great headway.

“By Jove!” said Jack, “she’s a fine one.  Looks like the Czar’s yacht, but no Russian vessel I know of can make that speed.”

“She’s got the ear-marks of Thornycroft build about her,” commented Drummond.  “By Jove, Jack, what luck if she should prove to be English.  No flag flying, though.”

“She’s heading for us,” said Jack, “and apparently she knows which side the cannon is on.  If she’s Russian, they’ve taken it for granted we’ve captured the whole place, and are in command of the guns.  There, she’s turning.”

The steamer was abreast of the rock, and perhaps three miles distant.  Now she swept a long, graceful curve westward and drew up about half a mile east of the rock.

“Jove, I wish I’d a pair of good glasses,” said Drummond.  “They’re lowering a boat.”

Jack showed more Highland excitement than Russian stolidity, as he watched the oncoming of a small boat, beautifully riding the waves, and masterfully rowed by sailors who understood the art.  Drummond stood imperturbable as a statue.

“The sweep of those oars is English, Jack, my boy.”

As the boat came nearer and nearer Jack became more and more agitated.

“I say, Alan, focus your eyes on that man at the rudder.  I think my sight’s failing me.  Look closely.  Did you ever see him before?”

“I think I have, but am not quite sure.”

“Why, he looks to me like my jovial and venerable father-in-law, Captain Kempt, of Bar Harbor.  Perfectly absurd, of course:  it can’t be.”

“He does resemble the Captain, but I only saw him once or twice.”

“Hooray, Captain Kempt, how are you?” shouted Jack across the waters.

The Captain raised his right hand and waved it, but made no attempt to cover the distance with his voice.  Jack ran pell-mell down the steps, and Drummond followed in more leisurely fashion.  The boat swung round to the landing, and Captain Kempt cried cordially: