Once on firm land, they ran a hundred yards or so till they reached a clump of swamp willows, and took shelter behind them.  Indeed, Foy did more, for he climbed the trunk of one of the willows high enough to see over the reeds to the ship Swallow and the lake beyond.  By this time the Spaniards were alongside the Swallow, for he could hear their captain hailing him who leant over the taffrail, and commanding all on board to surrender under pain of being put to death.  But from the man in the stern came no answer, which was scarcely strange, seeing that it was the dead pilot, Hans, to whom they talked in the misty dawn, whose body Martin had lashed thus to deceive them.  So they fired at the pilot, who took no notice, and then began to clamber on board the ship.  Presently all the men were out of the first boat—­that with the sail set on it—­except two, the steersman and the captain, whom, from his dress and demeanour, Foy took to be the one-eyed Spaniard, Ramiro, although of this he was too far off to make sure.  It was certain, however, that this man did not mean to board the Swallow, for of a sudden he put his boat about, and the wind catching the sail soon drew him clear of her.

“That fellow is cunning,” said Foy to Martin and Martha below, “and I was a fool to light the tarred canvas, for he has seen the smoke drawing up the hatchway.”

“And having had enough fire for one night, thinks that he will leave his mates to quench it,” added Martin.

“The second boat is coming alongside,” went on Foy, “and surely the mine should spring.”

“Scarcely time yet,” answered Martin, “the matches were set for six minutes.”

Then followed a silence in which the three of them watched and listened with beating hearts.  In it they heard a voice call out that the steersman was dead, and the answering voice of the officer in the boat, whom Foy had been right in supposing to be Ramiro, warning them to beware of treachery.  Now suddenly arose a shout of “A mine! a mine!” for they had found one of the lighted fuses.

“They are running for their boat,” said Foy, “and the captain is sailing farther off.  Heavens! how they scream.”

As the words passed his lips a tongue of flame shot to the very skies.  The island seemed to rock, a fierce rush of air struck Foy and shook him from the tree.  Then came a dreadful, thunderous sound, and lo! the sky was darkened with fragments of wreck, limbs of men, a grey cloud of salt and torn shreds of sail and cargo, which fell here, there, and everywhere about and beyond them.