trying in
vain.

There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, and in spite of the wonder
and awe that had pervaded him, Rodd Harding now behaved like a very
ordinary human being, for he yawned, felt sleepy and that he was not so
hot as he was before, and thinking that it was no use to stop there any
longer, and that he might as well dress, he crept softly back to his cot
and stood thinking again.

"Can't be anything like morning," he said to himself, "and I shall be
able to see that brig then. Why, I remember now; I was dreaming about
the storm at Havre, and that vessel--what was it? The _Jeanne d'Arc_--
escaping, and the forts firing at her; and I saw the flashes from the
guns. Of course; how absurd! That was the thunder and lightning,
and--"

Rodd slipped slowly on to his pillow, yawned again, muttered something
about how sleepy he felt, and the next moment he was off as soundly as
his uncle; but only, it seemed to him, to begin dreaming directly after
about the escaping of the brig, and the storm, mingled with the noise
and the shouting of people ashore, and a heavy bump from somewhere close
at hand; and then the boy was wide awake again, springing up so suddenly
in his cot that it was not his hand but his head that struck with a rap
against the woodwork, as a voice that he hardly recognised in the
confusion shouted--

"Rodd, boy! Quick--on deck! The schooner's going down!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

STRANGE PROCEEDINGS.

"Is it a wreck, uncle?" panted Rodd.

"I thought so, boy," cried Uncle Paul; "but don't talk. Slip on two or
three things."

He was still speaking, when there was a rush down the cabin stairs, and
the captain shouted--

"Quick, doctor! Your pistols and a gun! We are attacked!"

The words thrilled through Rodd, and the next minute he had seized a
double gun and was ready to follow his uncle and the skipper on deck,
where in the faint light of morning he found nearly the whole of the
crew gathered across the after part of the deck, armed with capstan bars
for the moment, while the mate and Joe Cross were rapidly handing round
cutlasses and pikes. The forward part of the schooner was in the hands
of strangers, all well-armed; others were climbing over the bows from a
boat which was made fast alongside, while hurried orders were being
given to them in French by a tall, dark, grey-haired man, sword in one
hand, pistol in the other.

"What's the meaning of this?" panted Uncle Pau