invaders were driven from
the deck, leaving their chief mate, insensible from wounds, behind
them.

The rudder being repaired so as to render her manageable, the lugger
kept up a sort of retreating fight until night set in, when, as Harry
said, "she gave the cutter the slip like a knotless thread."

But now a disagreeable question arose amongst them, and that was, what
they should do with the wounded officer, who had been left as a prize
in their hands--though a prize that they would much rather have been
without. Some wished that he might die of his wounds, and so they
would get rid of him; for they were puzzled how to dispose of him in
such a way as not to lead to their detection, and place their lives in
jeopardy. Harry was on his knees by the side of the officer, washing
his wounds with Riga balsam, of which they had a store on board, and
binding them up, when one desperate fellow cut short the perplexity
and discussion of the crew, by proposing to fling their _prize_
overboard.

On hearing the brutal proposal, Harry sprang to his feet, and hurling
out his long bony arm, he exclaimed, "Ye savage!" and, dashing his
fist in the face of the ruffian, felled him to the deck.

The man (if we may call one who could entertain so inhuman an idea by
the name of man) rose, bleeding, growling, and muttering threats of
revenge.

"Ye'll blab, will ye?" said Harry, eyeing him fiercely; "threaten to
dow it again, and there's the portion that's waiting for yur neck!"
and, as he spoke, he pointed with his finger to the cross-tree of
the lugger, and added, "and ye knaw that the same reward awaits ye
if ye set yur weel-faur'd face ashore! Out o' my sight, ye
'scape-the-gallows!"

For three days and nights, after her encounter with the brig, the
lugger kept out to sea; and on the fourth night, which was thick,
dark, and starless, Harry resolved to risk all; and, desiring the
skipper to stand for the shore, all but run her aground on Embleton
beach. No light was hoisted, no signal given. Harry held up his
finger, and every soul in the lugger was mute as death. A boat was
lowered in silence, and four of the crew being placed under the
command of Ned Thomson, pulled ashore. The boat flew quickly, but the
oars seemed only to kiss the water, and no sound audible at the
distance of five yards proceeded from their stroke.

"Now, pull back quietly, mates," said Ned, "and I'll be aboard wi'
some o' wur awn folks in a twinkling."

It