" cried Rodd, as he gazed in the sailor's dimly-seen face,
"how are you going to manage to row back?"

"Well, sir, that's one of the things I have been asking myself."

"Well, you had better speak to the skipper."

"Not me, sir. I'm not going to try to teach him. If I was to say a
word he'd jump down my throat bang. Oh, he knows what he's about, or he
wouldn't have told me to stand by with that there grapnel."

"Yes, of course he'd know," said Rodd quietly. "I should like to know
how you'd got on."

The two lads stood listening to the weird sounds from the shore, every
now and then being puzzled by something that was entirely fresh, while
the swiftly running water gleamed dimly with the faintly seen reflection
of the stars, showing that a mist was gathering overhead, while Joe
Cross and the men lowered down the boat and hauled her up to the
gangway, ready to convey the visitors to the brig.

They had hardly finished preparations before the voices that had come
before in murmurs from the cabin were heard ascending to the deck, and
the Count cried out of the darkness--

"Are you ready there, Morny, my son?"

"Yes, my father," replied the lad, and Rodd walked with him to the side.

The men were in their places, with their oars ready to hand to lower at
once, Joe Cross holding on in front with his boat-hook through a
ring-bolt. A few more words passed between the Count and Uncle Paul,
and then the former bade his son descend into his place, following
slowly directly after.

"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night, Rodd!" cried Morny. "We shan't be long getting to the
brig."

"No," cried Rodd. "Good-night! Here, one moment; I'll slip down and
come back with the gig."

Before any one else could speak he had dropped into the boat, his feet
touching the nearest thwart as the skipper cried "Let go!" and almost
the next moment the men were pulling hard, while Joe Cross dropped upon
his knees to feel for the grapnel so as to make sure it was at hand,
while to Rodd it seemed that the boat was motionless in the rapid river
and that the schooner had been suddenly snatched away.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

UP A TREE.

"Put your backs into it, my lads," cried Joe Cross, almost fiercely.
"Steady! Steady all, and look out that you don't have a smash. Pull!
Hard! Here, I shall be tugged out of the boat!"

For it seemed almost directly after that the dimly-seen hull of the brig
rose up out of the darkness close