soul, should it be set free in that hour of danger; there
was burning love for his country's cause. The eye of Derry Duck fell on
the isolated group who had been firing at the privateer. He saw a
well-known form climbing to the dizzy masthead, while the shot were
flying around him. Derry rushed in among them with his axe in his hand,
and waving it around his head scattered them like leaves before the
wind. He stayed long enough to see that Blair had not dropped like a
wounded bird among the rigging of the Molly.

Slowly, very slowly, the boy made his way to the deck, then sank down
faint and bleeding. A bullet had entered his side; yet he had been so
ready for the stroke that it had not thrown him off his guard. Although
weak and giddy, he had made his way down his narrow pathway, and
reported his duty done. Even the hardy captain gave a pitying glance at
the brave boy as he was borne below by the sailors. Yet this was no time
for such thoughts in the mind of Captain Knox. The reinforcement from
the Molly were on the deck of the East Indiaman. He could hear the
hearty cheer of Derry Duck as he placed himself at their head, and
rushed upon the brave Britons.

Derry's impetuous charge was too much for the soldiers, many of them
enfeebled by the climate of India, and going home to recruit in their
native breezes. Over the deck swept Derry and his band like a fierce
hurricane, which naught can stay or withstand. A shout of victory went
up from the Molly, a shout which Derry's excited men sent back over the
water in a deafening reply. The East Indiaman was won; her crew were
prisoners; her cargo the prize of the Molly.

Where was Blair Robertson amid the general triumph? This was Derry
Duck's first question, as his returning footsteps again trod the deck of
the privateer.

Alone in the deserted cabin, Derry found what was more precious to him
now than his share in the glory or the spoils of the recent fight.

The rough sailor asked no questions of the fainting lad. Tearing open
Blair's garments, he found at once the wound, and with ready skill and
unwavering firmness his sharp knife did the surgeon's duty. The bullet
was forced out by Derry's hard fingers, and his rough hands tied the
bandage with a touching attempt at tenderness. Blair uttered no murmur.
His lips moved gently, but they whispered only words befitting the
sinner passing into the presence of his God.

Derry caught the low whisper, and understood its mea