CHAPTER XXXIV.

IN LIBERTY’S DEFENCE.

A low, guttural mutter of distant thunder shuddered through the air as Harrington rushed into the night, and turning at the head of the street, he saw the knotted snakes of the lightning flash and writhe, and vanish, inextricable, on the slow-heaving wall of heavy thunder-cloud that filled the western sky. Black poisonous vapors, the flying couriers of the coming tempest, fled swiftly up the zenith, and half obscured the livid and tottering moon; and projected in the yet unclouded purple east before him, redly glimmered the large few stars. He did not pause, but strode rapidly on, while the fitful gusts of the rising wind swept the dim, deserted streets into storms of dust around him. It was a wild night, and heaven and earth seemed to reel in the gathering darkness; but his soul was unshaken, and he was strong to die.

The moon was hid before he had reached Beacon street, and a solid blackness, lit only at intervals by wild, bright flashes of still distant lightning, filled the lampless streets. Behind him, as he sped on, the low ominous thunder shuddered through the black vast, and the dust swept around him in rustling storms through the darkness. He met no one—every person was safely housed, and even the watchmen had crept away into sheltered nooks from the tempest.

A melancholy and funereal sound of bells tolled vaguely through the thick air, striking the midnight hour, as he reached the head of State street. The streaming gusts had lulled, and in dead silence, broken only by the hollow tramp of his quick footfalls, and by an occasional muffled shudder of rolling thunder, he sped over the deserted pavement, while ever and anon the sudden blue of the lightning lit for a moment the dark bulks of the looming buildings, and gleamed ghastfully on their multitude of gilded signs to vanish into sightless darkness.

Soon he reached the wharf, and saw beyond the dim wilderness of masts and yards, far out at sea, under the heavy canopy of cloud, a broad half-sphere of clear purple sky with the moonlit level of the distant ocean shining in lustrous silver beneath it. Again the lightning quivered, bluely irradiating for an instant the dark vault into livid violet, and as it vanished, and the darkness closed, a long, staggering roll of heavy thunder resounded above him, and a few large drops of rain fell.

Breaking into a run, he sped along the pier, and presently saw a vague figure standing and looking toward him. It was Captain Fisher, dressed in an oil-skin coat and tarpaulin, on which the sprinkling rain was pattering.

“Here I am,” whispered Harrington. “Have they arrived?”

“Yes,” returned the Captain in a low voice. “We’re all here.”

“In then, and away at once,” returned Harrington, rushing along the pier in advance of him to the boat.

They came upon it presently, and in a faint shimmer of blue lightning Harrington saw Wentworth and Bagasse standing below him in the little vessel. Letting himself down from the pier, he dropped lightly into it, followed by the Captain.

“By Jove!” murmured Wentworth, with a low laugh, while the Captain was unhampering the sails, “this is a bad night for our work.”

“No, it’s a good night,” whispered Harrington, glancing up at the hulls of the two vessels between which the boat lay, to be sure that no one was listening. “The storm is a real godsend, for it will be sure to drive those fellows in doors, and I hope every man of them.”

“Ah, ze dam rain,” growled Bagasse. “She will wet our jacket for us.”

Harrington turned away, cast off the painter, and the boat moved out a little way from her moorings.

“How’ll you have her, John?” whispered the Captain, referring to the arrangement of the sails.

“There’ll be a streaming wind presently,” replied Harrington, with a glance at the sky. “We’d better have two reefs in the mainsail and one in the jib. Then she’ll drive.”

The Captain and Wentworth seized the halyards, and up went the sails. Harrington took the tiller, and while they busied themselves at the reefing nettles, the boat moved silently through the black water between the long vista made by the dark hulls of the vessels on either side. The wind was in the lull preceding the tempest, but it was sufficient to belly the sail, and push them with silent swiftness before it. Large drops of rain plashed on the little vessel and in the dark water as they went on. Presently, Bagasse, with a Frenchman’s aversion to wet, went forward muttering, and crept into the cuddy. The Captain sat on the thwart with the mainsheet in his hand, and Wentworth beside him. Harrington, with one hand on the tiller, was silently brooding on the ghostly effect of the dark hulls and piers on either side, which made the place seem like the black wharves of Acheron.

Silently, amidst the soft plashing of the sprinkling rain, they glided out into the salt smell of the open harbor, and as the blue lightning shook over the broad vault and dark sea, they saw a boat with several rowers shoot across their bows at a distance of about thirty yards. It was the harbor police, and their boat at once hove to.

“Hallo there,” roared a rough voice over the waters—“who’s that, and where are you bound such a night as this?”

“It’s me, Belcher,” shouted the Captain. “Eldad Fisher and the Polly Ann. Goin’ down on business.”

The Polly Ann glided past the police boat as he spoke.

“All right,” returned Belcher, with a laugh. “Great night though to go on business, ’Dad. Row, men.”

The oars at once fell with a roll in the rullocks, as the Captain would have phrased it, and the police boat shot away.

Nothing was said in the Polly Ann, and she moved on with a steady motion, the drawing wind pulling her bulging sail. The Captain had lit his short pipe, and had turned with his face to the west, watching for the breeze. Harrington sat in silence solemnly brooding on the strange scene around him. Overhead a rack of solid darkness; underneath the inky swells of the wide sea, like a sea of weltering shadow, which broke as the boat clove its silent way into a flow of soft gloomy phosphorescent fire from her prow and in her wake; before him the uncouth crouching figure of the Captain, with the red glow of his pipe momently lighting his cheek in little flashes, and giving his face the grim, leathern look of some weird Charon piloting them over the sullen lake of Death; and beyond in the far distance, below the sombre canopy, that shape of clear sky, smaller now, with the silver level of the sea beneath it, calm and lustrous as the ocean of Eternity. A sense of sombre sweetness melted into the young man’s heart, as he gazed over the solemn and awful flood of shadow to that melancholy glory far away. He thought of that last hour with her; of their proud and exulting parting; he thought of her standing now, graceful and radiant as a Greek goddess, and noble in her widowhood, dreaming of him with the mellow light of the holy room around her, while he drifted on over the sullen water toward that bright line of jasper, like one drifting from eternal Night to the ocean of eternal Day.

A moment, and the heavy canopy closed down over the clear horizon, and all was impenetrable darkness. The wind freshened with a long, mysterious sigh, the sails swelled and strained, and the boat began to rush with the water gurgling and brattling around her bows, and flowing swiftly past her sides and from her stern in a brighter gloom of phosphorescent fire. Except that strange senescent light, and the red glow of the revolving beacon far down the harbor, which every little while glared in the darkness like a sombre eye, there was no glimmer on all the black expanse under the vast and hollow vault of sooty cloud.

Suddenly, while the broad blue shuttle of the lightning shook over the wild and livid sea, the solid darkness of the rack split with a crash in a long, bright jagged crack of fire, and closed again with a tremendous trampling roar. At once through the blackness, the headlong torrent dropped hissing and seething on the water, the heavy wind streamed staggering down, shook the craft, stopped and reeled, rose howling in a mighty forward gale, and amidst the cataract rushing of the rain, the heeling boat tore like a fury through the level sea with the spray flying over her bows, and the wash rippling in at her gunnel. On she fled, leaning down with her bulging sails strained as though they would burst from the bolt-ropes, the water swishing swiftly past her side and rushing from her stern in phosphorescent gloom, the rain plashing in clattering riot on her planks and canvas, and the whole inky flood beaten into myriad-millioned jets of springing flame around her. Again shook the broad blue shuttle of the lightning, illuminating the darkness for an instant with a ghastly bloom, and showing the wild shapes of the clouds, and again through the following blackness burst the roar of the tumbling thunder, dying away in the sweeping rush of the headlong wind, and the voluminous plash and clatter of the falling torrent. Not a word was spoken on board the flying boat. The Captain sat grimly holding the tail of the mainsheet, ready to let fly at a moment’s warning; and Wentworth, with a tin-pail in his hands, baled out the water as fast as it came in, while Harrington, bare-headed, for he had taken off his felt-hat to wrap around his pistol that it might be kept dry, and tucked both into his bosom, sat grasping the tiller, drenched, like every one on board, save the mackintoshed Captain and Bagasse, to the skin, his soul throbbing with stern glory in the splendid terrors of the storm. So, amidst wind and rain and darkness, and the incessant bursts of lightnings, rosy-purple now, and the tumbling roll of thunder, the boat held her flying course through seething flood and showering spray.

At the headlong velocity with which she flew, with the wind right abaft and a level sea beneath her hull, it could not take her long to reach the port to which the hand of Harrington steered her. It was perhaps hardly half an hour before, in a sheeting flood of rose and purple lightning, he saw the large, humpy mass of the island loom up from the sea before him. The darkness fell, followed by the thunder, and the boat sped on. Soon came another sheet of lightning, and this time, much nearer the island now, he saw the house upon it, and caught a glimpse of two boats lying at the wharf on the southern side of the shore. The rain had begun to slacken, and the wind to abate its violence. He waited a moment till the thunder had rolled away, and then called the Captain to him.

“Captain,” said he, “settle away the sails, call Bagasse, and out with the oars. I am going to run the boat to the northwestern side of the island, out of sight of the fellow we’re after.”

The captain sprang away, cast off the main-sheet, while Wentworth seized the jib, and amidst the clank and rattle of hoops and halyards, the sails were settled and clewed, and the boat swung masterless upon the brine. Bagasse came creeping out of the cuddy at the call of Wentworth, and Harrington securing the tiller rose and came forward.

“Hah!” said the Frenchman, hoarsely, “I haf my jacket dry! Br-r-r! It is ze night of ze old devail wis his tonnerre and light and rain watair.” And with a shrug, he looked out on the black expanse around him, and held out his hand to see how much rain was falling.

“The rain is nearly over,” said Harrington, observing his motion, as he stooped to take up an oar. “Can you row, Bagasse?”

“Oh, yes; I row vair fine,” returned the fencing-master, taking up another, and seating himself.

They all took their places, Harrington at the stroke-oar, the blades fell into the water, and the boat turned and shot to the northwestern side of the island. A few minutes’ rowing brought them to the shore, and at the word of command they rested, backing water, and keeping within about ten yards’ distance from the strand. At that moment the lightning blazed, showing them the little beach covered with a mass of huge pebbles, and the steep acclivity just beyond which led to the grassy summit of the island.

A few moments’ discussion ensued, Harrington having suggested that perhaps it would be better to make the attack by rowing up to the boat of the kidnappers, instead of going across the island as he had intended. Presently it was decided to carry out the original plan, as if the guard saw a boat approaching, he might summon his fellows, and thus necessitate a conflict.

“Now, friends, attention,” said Harrington. “Captain, take my oar.”

The Captain who sat by his side with one oar, took the other, and Harrington stepping past the other two, turned and faced them all.

“Listen,” said he. “I am now going on shore to reconnoitre, which can be best done by one person. If there is only one man in the boat, I can easily handle him. If there are more, I will return and we will all go up together; for though I am loth to imperil your lives, we must not put success at hazard. Stay here, and wait for me. On no account leave the boat, till I come to you. Remember now, for if you come on shore when I have left you, it may cost me my life. Bagasse, I trust you, old soldier, to see that I am obeyed.”

He uttered the last sentence in French, that Bagasse might not mistake him.

“It shall be so, my captain, since you command it,” returned the Frenchman, in the same language.

“Good,” said Harrington. “Now row me in.”

They bent to the oars in silence, and with one stroke the boat shot in five yards, and with a vigorous leap from the prow, Harrington sprang the other five, landed safely, and ran swiftly up the acclivity. The lightning blazed as he reached the summit, and they saw him sink down. The next instant the darkness fell with a peal of thunder, and he had vanished. So thick was the night, that he could not be seen after the lightning failed.

Left to himself, Harrington, with his body bent low, ran swiftly over the wet, coarse grass, past the dark bulk of the silent house, in the outbuilding of which a dim lamp glimmered, and toward the wooden pier. The lightning blazed rosy-purple as he was midway, and fearful of being seen, he dropped prone. The next instant he rose in darkness, and ran on. Presently he approached the pier, and dropping on his hands and knees, he crept down to it, and vaguely saw the two boats, schooner-rigged, and both secured to the wharf at the foot of a short ladder running down to the water. Sinking still lower, he crept to the edge of the wharf, lay flat, and gazed at the boats, through the dense darkness, with straining eyes. In a moment the lightning flashed again, and he saw a single man standing in one of the vessels, looking out to sea, with his back to him, and his hands in the pockets of a sou’wester. At a glance, Harrington knew, by the look of his figure, that he was a sailor, and overjoyed that he had but one to deal with, he instantly rose, drew his pistol from his breast, put on his hat, and with a noiseless step glided down the pier to the ladder.

The man turned just as he was within two or three yards of it, and saw him.

“Oh, it’s one o’ ye at last,” he growled, mistaking him for a comrade. “Egod, it’s about time for some o’ ye to bear a hand in this dog’s watch I’ve had of it.”

Harrington’s answer was to swing himself from the top of the ladder into the boat, which rocked beneath him. At that instant the lightning shook out in vivid rose and purple, illuminating his stern bearded face and stalwart form, and the man, burly fellow though he was, started violently.

“Who are you? What d’ye want here?” he demanded.

“I want that negro in the cuddy. Hurry!” said Harrington, abruptly.

The man clapped his hand to his waist for his knife. Harrington clutched his throat, and held the pistol to his temple.

“Take your hand from that knife or I’ll shoot you,” he said, sternly.

Aghast at the terrible gripe on his throat, and the touch of the cold pistol-barrel on his brow, the man let his hand drop, and would have sunk upon his knees only that Harrington upheld him.

“Mercy!” he gasped.

“Stand up,” said Harrington, releasing him.

The man stood up with shaking knees, trembling with terror.

“Go forward and take that negro from the cuddy,” ordered Harrington.

The man paused an instant, then went forward, followed by Harrington, and sprang for the ladder. But the long arm clutched him by the throat, and again the terrified wretch felt the pistol-barrel on his brow.

“Attempt that again and you die,” said Harrington. “Now take out the negro. Quick!”

Shaking with affright, the man stooped, opened the cuddy doors, and dragged out Antony, feet bound together, and arms lashed above the elbows to his side.

“Oh, Marster Harrington,” cried the delighted fugitive; “oh, I knowed you was comin’ right along. Never guv it up, Marster Harrington.”

“Silence, Antony,” said his savior. “Take your knife and cut those cords,” he added, to the other.

The man instantly obeyed, and the fugitive scrambled to his feet. The lightning blazed, and showed his lank figure, and his skull-like face wildly lighted with joy.

“Put up your knife, and sit down in the bottom of the boat where you are,” said Harrington to the man.

The man obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. He was almost frightened out of his wits by this terrible armed apparition.

“Now, Antony, can you walk?” asked Harrington.

“Yes, Marster; fus’rate,” returned the fugitive, with a ghostly caper, which proved that the ropes on his ankles, and his cramped position in the cuddy, had not materially impaired his circulation.

“Very well,” replied Harrington. “Now go up that ladder, and wait on the wharf till I come to you.”

The man groaned, but Antony, with a chuckle, instantly grasped the steps, crept up the ladder, and stood on the pier.

“Now,” said Harrington, turning to the squatting wretch, “you follow him.”

The man rose, trembling, and began to ascend, but he had only gone three steps when he felt the vice-like hand gripe his leg.

“Turn round and sit down on the ladder,” said Harrington, standing on the deck of the cuddy.

The man obeyed, and in the flash of purple lightning that came at that instant, sat livid, with glaring eyes, palsied with terror.

Harrington stuck his pistol between the buttoned lapels of his coat, clutched the man’s thigh with one hand, thus pinning him to the seat, and held out the other hand to him.

“Give me your knife,” he said, imperatively.

“You’re not going to murder me,” gasped the sailor.

“No,” said Harrington, curtly.

The man panted hard, and gave him the knife. Still holding him by the thigh, Harrington grasped the ladder with the hand in which he held the knife, put one foot on the lower step, drew the boat round broadside to with the other, and bore heavily on the gunnel.

“What are ye doin’?” stammered the sailor. “She’s takin’ in water with your bearin’ on her.”

“I am capsizing your boat so that you can’t follow me,” coolly replied Harrington, amidst the gurgling rush of the water with which the boat was nearly full.

The man stared, breathing hard and trembling. Presently the boat toppled softly and slowly over and her masts splashed on the water. Harrington at once cut the rope which secured her, and she began to recede on the weltering swells.

Changing his position, Harrington put out his foot and drawing the other boat to him, began to press on the gunnel.

“You’re not goin’ to capsize that boat, too,” gasped the man.

Harrington did not answer, but bore down heavily, and the boat filled and toppled down with a splash. As it went over, the man gave a smothered yell, frantically dashed both hands on his tarpaulin, and with a sudden desperate effort tore himself free from the gripe which held him, scrambled up the ladder, and with loud shouts ran madly for the house.

Harrington nearly fell from his hold into the water, and in the endeavor to save himself, his pistol dropped from the lappel and was gone. Recovering, he cut the rope which secured the capsized boat to the pier, and in his haste thoughtlessly flinging away the knife, sprang up the ladder.

“Quick Antony,” he cried, “fly, for they’ll be after us.”

They rushed together up the pier, and fled past the house, just as the entire gang poured from the outbuilding. At that moment the vivid lightning blazed broad, and the wild yells and the sudden furious thudding of feet behind them told them that they were seen.

“Run, Antony, run for your life!” cried Harrington.

Spurred by his fear of being retaken, the fugitive ran by Harrington’s side as fast as he did. Had he fallen behind, the young man would instantly have caught him up, and ran with him, but he did not. Together they reached the steep sloping edge of the island and plunged furiously down. But to the sudden horror of Harrington, Antony, impelled by some strange confusion of fear, instead of heading down with him to the left toward the boat, swerved in his descent obliquely away to the right and sped at a frantic pace in that direction toward the water. It was a moment before Harrington could stop in his headlong velocity, wheel, and rush after him, and in that moment Antony got the start of him at least thirty yards, and ran like a race-horse. Flying after him, Harrington heard the feet of the pursuers tearing down the slope, and close behind. Suddenly down went Antony on the large pebbles close to the edge of the water. The next instant Harrington reached him, turned, and through the darkness saw his enemies coming fast, and not more than forty yards distant. With one rapid glance to the right, he looked through the thick darkness for the boat, saw it not, and knew that the battle was now with him, and with him alone.

“Lie still, Antony; don’t move,” he cried, stepping close to the prone body and standing with his back to the sea, like a lion at bay.

They were coming. Had it been, not on those loose stones, or in the night, but in broad daylight or on a fair field, not those seven, no, nor twice their number, could have stood unvanquished before that agile vigor, that dauntless spirit of assault, that roused and terrible magnetic front of war. For this was one of those rare men whose presence in a battle is worth a thousand brands, and who carry death in their arm, and victory in their eye. This was the Cid Rodrigo Diaz, at the wind of whose sword-sweep ranks fled and fell. This was Roland, storm of dread with the pine-branch in his grasp among the cloven swarms at Ronceval. This was Tancred, arm of fate among a thousand foes at Dosylæum. This was Gaston when with forty knights at his back he drove before him one hundred thousand weaponed Jacqueric. All that ever Paladin did in blazing powess was in him to do. But there, on the brink of the salt flood, unarmed, in the murk night, on the rough ground, with seven knived hands to conquer—oh, hopeless hour of doom and ruin!—oh, forlorn death-grapple of the brave!

They came in a body—they spread from right to left in an arc of murder—they poised for the simultaneous rush—he swayed back for the cleaving spring. But at that instant, with a tremendous staggering clap of thunder, which rent the sky with fifty glittering cracks of fire, and stunned them all, the whole heaven, deep and vast and broad, and earth and air and sea, upburst in a long and lingering rosy flood of living flame. In that instant, as in a magic dream, he saw the boat far down the beach, rise with a peal of cries and a silent lift of oars, and shoot in silence to the shore—he saw the great sea sink and swell in vast and weltering lustrous shadow—he saw the seven assassins standing crouched with gleaming knives around him—he saw the deep heavens open up in rosy light to God. The next instant the darkness fell like the shutting of an eye; a surge of strength rushed like the blood of the whole race to his heart—and with a terrific bound he fell upon his foes.

Brief and awful was that battle. At the first leap he went through them like a thunderbolt, and two went down crashing senseless on the pebbles. Turning with a flying spring, he charged them as they huddled in a fierce knot of five, and dead thumped the sluff of the French kick, and the thud of the English blow. It was not more than a quarter of a minute in which he raged among their astounded junto, but in that quarter of a minute something like a sense that this was a statue of solid iron, preternaturally endowed with animate life, and flying among them with limbs of agile destruction, burst through their terrified souls. Down they went in swift succession, kicked and dashed and whirled hither and thither in crashing overthrow, and not a man rose more than to crawl, after he once fell. The last of the seven was a brawny wretch, who made a headlong rush and found no man in the place where there was one a second before, but instead two crushing hands that jarred the marrow in his bones as they fell from behind around his bull neck, and swung him off his feet to dash him howling a dozen paces distant on the rocky strand. Not more than a quarter of a minute, and at the tail of it came Bagasse with cries of fury, and the leaps of a Zouave, brandishing his cavalry sabre; and fast behind him Wentworth, springing like a panther, with a pistol in each hand; and behind him the Captain, with his loaden stave. But the field was won! Groans and curses of anguish resounding from it in all directions. One bruised assassin feebly tottering away from it through the darkness; three more weakly crawling over the stones on their hands and knees; and the other three lying half senseless where the mighty limbs of Harrington had hurled them.

Yes, the field was won, but after the battle there was going to be massacre. For the fierce Celtic blood of Bagasse was up, and standing only for an instant, he swung up his sabre and dashed with a yell upon a wretch who was essaying to rise. Harrington sprang and caught him by the wrist.

“No, Bagasse,” he cried. “Spare them. They are hurt enough already.”

Bagasse stood for an instant, panting, then turned sullenly away.

At that moment the Captain, who had stood looking in blank stupefaction on the prostrate bodies, burst into screams of eldritch merriment, brandishing his stave, and capering like mad.

Wentworth, meanwhile, was hugging the panting Harrington, almost wild with exulting joy.

“By all the gods!” he shouted, bursting away and roaring with laughter, “was there ever the like of this! Seven to one, and he flogs the life out of them! Oh, Froissart, where are you! Sieur Jehan Froissart, why did you die! Come back, you old clerk of chivalry, and write it down! Seven to one, and there they lie!” And Wentworth bent himself double in a fresh convulsion of merriment.

“He fit ’em,” hooted the Captain, prancing deliriously, “he fit ’em all. Glory hallelujah, world without end, amen.” And with a halloo, he subsided, and walked from body to body, bending curiously over each, and dropping cheerful suggestions to the sufferers, as to the sort of medical treatment they would better employ.

“Bagasse,” panted Harrington, grasping the Frenchman’s hand, “I owe you this victory. Your training stood me in good stead with these fellows.”

“Ah, Missr Harrington,” returned Bagasse, tapping him on the chest with the hilt of the sabre, “you do me mush credit. Zat was done vair brown.”

“I’ll bet it was,” corroborated Wentworth. “They’ll remember it to their graves, the cowardly ruffians. Had they knives? They had, eh?” he continued, as Harrington bent his head in assent. “But why didn’t you shoot them?”

“I lost my pistol,” replied Harrington, breathing hard.

“And fought them bare-handed,” said Wentworth. “You infernal dastards,” he roared, turning toward the crawling wretches, “you deserve to be slaughtered, every hound of you. Yes, crawl off, you jackals of slavery. Curse you! I hate you.”

“Richard, Richard,” said Harrington, feebly, “don’t talk so. It’s enough to have half-killed the poor fellows, without abusing them. Heaven knows I wouldn’t have harmed them if it hadn’t been necessary. But let us not stain victory with insulting them in their misery.”

“Insulting them!” snapped Wentworth. “Come, I like that. Insulting kidnappers! By Jove, it’s not possible! Suppose they had killed you. I swear, Harrington, it was the merest chance that we came—though, to be sure, our coming was coming too late. We heard the running and shouting, and didn’t dare to leave the boat till we knew what it meant, and where you were. But if I’d only heard your pistol, I tell you I’d have been on shore, orders or no orders. Then the next thing, we saw you in the flash, with the scoundrels around you, and we put for the spot at once. The infernal ruffians!”

“Come, come,” murmured Harrington, ending this hasty colloquy, which had not occupied more than three or four minutes, “let’s be off. I am breathed a little, and I feel exhausted, and want to lie down.”

“But where’s Antony?” said Wentworth.

“Oh, here he is,” replied Harrington, turning to the fugitive, who in blind obedience to his unrevoked command, still lay upon the stones near the sea. “Get up, Antony. You’re safe forever, I hope, poor fellow.”

The fugitive instantly rose, and followed the little party over the shingle, delightedly sniffing in the salt air.

“There’s no possibility of those wretches following us in the condition they’re in, and that’s a comfort,” said Wentworth.

“None, whatever,” replied Harrington, in an exhausted voice. “Besides, I capsized all the boats on the island.”

“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Wentworth. “Bagasse—Captain—do you hear that? He has capsized all the boats on the island! Oh, well, there’s no use in saying another word, for of all the trumps in this world you’re the trumpiest, Harrington!”

Bagasse and the Captain joined in with excited questions as to how he did it, and Harrington gave them a hasty account of the whole procedure as they went together along the shingle. Soon amidst great hilarity they reached the Polly Ann, lying bound to the rocks by a grapnel, which the Captain had flung as he rushed from her to Harrington’s rescue. Antony got in first and squatted down forward on the deck of the cuddy, then the others, and last Harrington, who went aft to the tiller and sat down. For a minute all was activity, then amidst the clank and rattle of hoops and halyards up went the mainsail and jib, the reefing nettles were unclewed, the canvas filled languidly, and the boat moved away from the shore with a faint brattle over the dark, lifting swells.