ey would be forced below, the hatch
clapped on, and the Englishmen be masters of the slaver.

But it was not so. Load a gun with powder, fire it, and the force of
the preparation will drive the bullet a certain distance. But then the
powder has exploded, and its force is at an end. So it was with Mark's
followers; the force in them was expended and sent the slavers right
aft, but there was no more power left. They were all weak and
suffering, and in obeying Mark's last cry they were completely spent,
while their enemies were vigorous and strong.

Finding out the weakness of the attacking party, the slavers ceased
giving way, rebounded, and the tables were rapidly turned, Mark's men
being driven back step by step, forward and to the side over which they
had come to the attack. It was in vain that they shouted to one another
to stand by and come on, and that Tom Fillot bounded about, making his
fists fly like windmill sails, while Mark's voice was heard above the
din: they were thoroughly beaten. It was weak and injured men fighting
against the well-fed, strong and hearty, and in spite of true British
pluck and determination, the former gave way more and more, till the
fight resolved itself into assault against stubborn resistance, the men
seeming to say by their acts, "Well, if you are to pitch us overboard,
you shall have as much trouble as we can give you."

"Ah, would yer!" roared Tom Fillot, making one of his rushes in time to
upset a couple of the schooner's men, who had seized Mark in spite of
his struggles, and were about to throw him over the side.

As the men went down Mark had another fall, but he gathered himself up,
looking extremely vicious now, and while Tom Fillot was still struggling
with the slavers, one of whom had got hold of his leg, another man made
at the midshipman, and drove at him with a capstan bar, not striking,
but thrusting fiercely at his face with the end.

Mark ducked, avoided the blow, and naturally sought to make reprisal
with the ineffective little weapon he held, lunging out so sharply that
it went home in the man's shoulder, and he yelled out, dropped the bar,
and fled.

"Why didn't you do that before, ten times over, sir?" cried Tom Fillot,
kicking himself free. "It's too late now, sir. I'm afraid we're beat
this time."

"No, no, no," cried Mark, angrily. "Come on, my lads!" and he made a
rush, which must have resulted in his being struck down, for he advanced
quite