menacing and trumpeting like a wounded
elephant, exulting in his rage. But there was no counsel, no light of
reason, in that ecstasy of battle; and he shied from the pursuit of
victory to hail fresh blows upon the supine Hemstead, so that the stool
was shattered and the cabin rang with their violence. The sight of that
post-mortem cruelty recalled Carthew to the life of instinct, and his
revolver was in hand and he had aimed and fired before he knew. The
ear-bursting sound of the report was accompanied by a yell of pain; the
colossus paused, swayed, tottered, and fell headlong on the body of his
victim.

In the instant silence that succeeded, the sound of feet pounding on the
deck and in the companion leaped into hearing; and a face, that of the
sailor Holdorsen, appeared below the bulkheads in the cabin doorway.
Carthew shattered it with a second shot, for he was a marksman.

"Pistols!" he cried, and charged at the companion, Wicks at his heels,
Tommy and Amalu following. They trod the body of Holdorsen underfoot,
and flew up-stairs and forth into the dusky blaze of a sunset red as
blood. The numbers were still equal, but the Flying Scuds dreamed not of
defence, and fled with one accord for the forecastle scuttle. Brown was
first in flight; he disappeared below unscathed; the Chinaman followed
head-foremost with a ball in his side; and the others shinned into the
rigging.

A fierce composure settled upon Wicks and Carthew, their fighting second
wind. They posted Tommy at the fore and Amalu at the main to guard the
masts and shrouds, and going themselves into the waist, poured out a
box of cartridges on deck and filled the chambers. The poor devils aloft
bleated aloud for mercy. But the hour of any mercy was gone by; the cup
was brewed and must be drunken to the dregs; since so many had fallen
all must fall. The light was bad, the cheap revolvers fouled and carried
wild, the screaming wretches were swift to flatten themselves against
the masts and yards or find a momentary refuge in the hanging sails. The
fell business took long, but it was done at last. Hardy the Londoner was
shot on the foreroyal yard, and hung horribly suspended in the brails.
Wallen, the other, had his jaw broken on the maintop-gallant crosstrees,
and exposed himself, shrieking, till a second shot dropped him on the
deck.

This had been bad enough, but worse remained behind. There was still
Brown in the forepeak. Tommy, with a sudden clamour of