now but a matter of seconds provided that the crew had
not drawn in the gangplank between the steamer and the shore.

Suddenly he found himself on the gangplank, at the same time seeing a
man advancing toward him with something gleaming in one hand. It was
the mate who had just come out with his knife drawn.

The captain feared that he might make a mistake.

"Toni, it is I," he said in a voice almost breathless because of the
effort of his running.

Upon treading the deck of his vessel, he instantly recovered his
tranquillity.

Already the shots had ceased and the silence was ominous. In the
distance could be heard whistlings, cries of alarm, the noise of
running. The Carabineers and guards were called and grouped together in
order to charge in the dark, marching toward the spot where the
shooting had sounded.

"Haul in the gangplank!" ordered Ferragut.

The mate aided three of the hands who had just come up to retire the
gangplank hastily. Then he threatened the dog, to make it cease
howling.

Ferragut, near the railing, scanned carefully the darkness of the quay.
It seemed to him that he could see some men carrying another in their
arms. A remnant of his wrath made him raise his right hand, still
armed, aiming at the group. Then he lowered it again.... He remembered
that officers would be coming to investigate the occurrence. It was
better that they should find the boat absolutely silent.

Still panting, he entered the saloon under the poop and sat down.

As soon as he was within the circle of pale light that a hanging lamp
spread upon the table Toni fixed his glance on his left shoulder.

"Blood!..."

"It's nothing.... Merely a scratch. The proof of it is that I can move
my arm."

And he moved it, although with a certain difficulty, feeling the weight
of an increasing swelling.

"By-and-by I'll tell you how it happened.... I don't believe they'll be
anxious to repeat it."

Then he remained thoughtful for an instant.

"At any rate, it's best for us to get away from this port quickly....
Go and see our men. Not one of them is to speak about it!... Call
Caragol."

Before Toni could go out, the shining countenance of the cook surged up
out of the obscurity. He was on his way to the saloon, without being
called, anxious to know what had occurred, and fearing to find Ferragut
dying. Seeing the blood, his consternation expressed itself with
maternal vehemence.

"_Cristo del Grao!_... My captain's g