oment was exceedingly critical. Some one, in all probability, was
watching the boat from the deck; and, though the night was dark, it
required the utmost caution to proceed with any hopes of success. At
this instant, Ithuel again whispered:

"The time's near. Old Carlo has his orders, and little Ghita is alive to
see them obeyed. All now depends on silence and activity. In less than
five minutes, the boat will be under the port."

Raul understood the plain; but it struck him as hopeless. It seemed
impossible that Ghita could be permitted to quit the ship without a
hundred eyes watching her movements, and, though it was dark, it was far
from being sufficiently so to suppose it practicable for any one to join
her and not be seen. Yet this risk must be taken, or escape was out of
the question. An order given through the trumpet was encouraging; it
announced that the officer of the watch was employed at some duty that
must draw his attention another way. This was a great deal; few
presuming to look aside while this functionary was inviting their
attention in another direction. Raoul's brain was in a whirl. The two
Italians were at the height of their discussion; and, fortunately, the
clamor they made was at the loudest. Even the suppressed laughter of the
officers, on the outside of the canvas, was audible to _him_; though the
disputants could hear nothing but their own voices. Every knock of the
boat against the ship's side, every sound of the oars, as Carlo's foot
rattled them about, and the wash of the water, was audible. It seemed as
if all the interests of life--the future, the past, and the present,
together with the emotions of his whole heart, were compressed into that
single instant. Ignorant of what was expected, he asked Ithuel, in
French, the course he ought to take.

"Am I to fall I head-foremost into the water? What would you have of
me?" he whispered.

"Lie quiet, till I tell you to move. I'll make the signal, Captain Rule;
let the Eyetalians blaze away."

Raoul could not see the water, as he lay with his head fairly in the
port; and he had to trust entirely to the single sense of hearing.
Knock, knock, knock; the boat dropped slowly along the ship's side, as
if preparing to shove off. All this, Carlo Giuntotardi managed
exceedingly well. When he lay immediately beneath the main-channels, it
would not have been an easy thing to see his boat, even had there been
any one on the lookout. Here he held on; fo