looked about him, to see that in a very few minutes the moon's
edge would be rising above the forest, flooding the river with its
silvery light. If a watch was kept, which seemed to be certain, they
would be seen, the captain and crew alarmed before they could get
aboard, and, with so weak an attacking party, they would be at a
terrible disadvantage. So hesitating no longer than to give himself
time to loosen his dirk in its sheath, he leaned forward once more, and
in a low, earnest whisper gave the order,--

"Go!"

There was a faint rustle as the rope passed over the bough, a little
splash as it struck the water, the two oars dipped without a sound, as
the boat swung round, and they glided rapidly up the river with the
tide.

The distance, at the rate of speed at which they were going, was
extremely short, and Mark had to whisper to the men to pull harder, so
as to make the boat answer to the rudder: while the moon rose higher,
and though still invisible above the horizon, sent upward so warm a glow
that the topmasts of the schooner became visible, and Mark was able to
steer right for her bows.

"Now!" he whispered, "in with your oars."

He was obeyed, and the men laid them in, but made a slight noise--a mere
trifle of sound, but it was sufficient to alarm the man forward, who was
keeping watch; and to Mark's horror, he heard a quick movement, followed
by a shout of alarm.

But it was just as the boat grazed up against the schooner's side,
glided along, and Tom Fillot gripped the chains, stopped her course, and
made fast the painter.

"What's the matter? Are they getting out?" cried the skipper, hurrying
on deck, and of course upsetting the plan of keeping him and his men
below.

But before he had quite finished his question, Mark's voice rang
out,--"Forward!" and he sprang up in the chains, followed by his men,
leaped on deck, and directly after there was aflash and the report of a
pistol, but the man who fired it was driven headlong down upon the deck,
to roll over and over until stopped by the bulwark.

It was the skipper who fired, and then went down with a fierce cry of
rage, for Tom Fillot had rushed at him, striking him in violent
collision, the weight of the running sailor being sufficient to send him
flying. But he struggled up in a moment, and using his pistol as a
club, struck with it fiercely in all directions as he cheered on his
men, and bravely resisted the attempt to drive him and his fo