stled Tom Fillot, softly. "It was behind me. I didn't see
that. There, you have it."

He caught hold of the overhanging bough of a tree and brought the boat
up as they both stood there watching a gleaming light at a little
distance, which gradually was made out to be a lanthorn carried by
someone here and there.

"Ashore," whispered Mark.

"Afloat," said Tom. "It's somebody aboard ship. Hark at that!"

There was the rattle of a chain, apparently being let out through the
hawse-holes of a vessel, then a little more rattling, followed by the
disappearance of the light, and silence once more.

"What do you make of it, sir?" whispered Tom.

As he spoke there came a strange, plaintive, smothered sound, so full of
agony that Mark shuddered.

"I can hardly tell," he said. "I thought at first it was the
_Nautilus_."

"No, sir; people on board the _Naughtylass_ don't howl like that."

"Then--no: it can't be! Is it the slaver?" faltered Mark, as his heart
beat rapidly with excitement.

"It's she or another on the cowardly beggars," whispered Tom Fillot,
hoarsely. "Don't make a sound, my lads."

"But oh, it can't be," cried Mark, trembling now with eagerness.

"Don't see why not, sir. She was bound to go into hiding a bit till our
ship had gone, and she's crept in here to lie by, and sail perhaps when
the tide turns."

"Take a turn with a rope round that branch, Tom," whispered Mark; "and
not a sound."

"Trust me, sir, for that," was whispered back; and there was a little
rustling heard as Mark carefully made his way in the darkness to where
Tom Fillot stood.

"Sit down," whispered Mark. "I want all the men to hear. Lean this
way, all of you."

There was another rustling sound, and a certain amount of deep breathing
as Mark whispered softly,--

"Mind, not a word when I've done, or we shall be heard aboard that
vessel. She's not two hundred yards away."

There was not a sound, and after waiting a few moments to command his
voice and to try and stay the tumultuous beating of his heart, Mark went
on,--

"My lads, that must be the schooner waiting, as Tom Fillot said."

He paused again, for his words would hardly come. Then, more and more
huskily from his emotion:

"My lads, I know you're weak, but you've got the pluck. The crew of
that schooner stole upon us in the night, struck you all down, and
pitched us into the boat."

There was another pause--a longer one, for it required a desperate