s.

If ever man was surprised, that man was Smuggler Hawkins. But he
answered the call to surrender with a shout of defiance.

After this it was all a wild medley of pistols cracking, cutlasses
clashing, cries--yes, and, I am sorry to say, a few groans; for blood
was shed, and one man at least would never sail the salt seas more. But
if blood was shed, the seas washed it off; for the fight took place with
the spray driving over both vessels, white in the moonlight.

A prize crew was left on the _Brixham_, and in less than twenty minutes
both craft were safe at anchor in Torquay harbour.

Meanwhile, the party who had been landed near to Hope's Nose had made
their way inland, bearing somewhat to the east to make a detour, both
for the purpose of getting well in the rear of the smugglers'
cottage--where Tom Fairlie, who was in command, knew the smugglers were
to be found--and because the night was still young.

When Scrivings left the outlook with Dan on watch, he betook himself to
this cottage, in order to complete arrangements for landing the cargo,
every bale and tub of which they had meant to haul up from Daddy's Hole
to the plains above, then to cart them away inland.

But he found his ten men ready, and even the horses and carts in
waiting. They were hired conveyances. The smugglers found no difficulty
in getting help to secure their booty in those days, when many even of
the resident gentry of England sympathized with contraband trade. So
there was nothing to be done but to wait.

It was a lonely enough spot where the little cottage stood among rocks
and woodland. Lovely as well as lonely and wild; though I fear its
beauties alone did nothing to recommend the place to the favour of
"Capting" Scrivings and his merry men.

The night waned. The moon rose higher and higher. The men in the bothy,
having eaten and drunk, had got tired at last of card-playing, and
nearly all were curled up and asleep.

The sentry had seated himself on a stone outside, and he too was
nodding, lulled into dreamland by the sough of the wind among the solemn
pines.

The wind favoured Fairlie's party, who, as stealthily as Indians, crept
towards the cottage from the rear.

The sentry was neatly seized and quickly gagged, and next moment the
lieutenant, sword in hand, his men behind him, had rushed into the
dimly-lit bothy.

"Surrender in the king's name! The first who stirs is a dead man!"

It was beautifully done. Not a show of