On Slap-Jack, therefore, devolved the task of rescuing the Marquise and her daughter from the grasp of “that big black swab,” as the foretopman mentally denominated him, whom he longed ardently to “pitch into” on the spot. He understood the position. His mother’s sea-song was addressed to no inattentive nor unwilling ears. He saw the difficulties and, indeed, the dangers of his undertaking; but the latter he despised, while the former he resolved to overcome; and he never lay out upon a yard to reef topsails in the fiercest squall with a clearer brain or a stouter heart than he now summoned to his aid on behalf of the ladies whom his mother loved so well. Creeping from his hiding-place, he listened anxiously to the retreating footfall of the blacks, and even waited several minutes after it had died away to assure himself the coast was clear. Discovery would have been fatal; for armed though he was with a cutlass and pistols, thirteen to one, as he sagely reflected, was long odds; and “if I should be scuttled,” thought he, “before I can make signals, why, what’s to become of the whole convoy?” Therefore he was very cautious and reflective. He pondered, he calculated, he reckoned his time, he enumerated his obstacles, he laid out his plans before he proceeded to action. His only chance was to reach the brigantine without delay, and report the whole matter to the skipper forthwith, who he was convinced would at once furnish a boat’s crew to defend the ladies, and probably put himself at their head. Emerging from the hut, he observed to his consternation that it was already dusk. There is but a short twilight in these low latitudes, where the evening hour—sweetest of the whole twenty-four—is gone almost as soon as it arrives— “The sun’s rim dips, The stars rush out, At one stride comes the dark.” And that dark, in the jungle of a West Indian island, is black as midnight. It was well for Slap-Jack that a seaman’s instinct had prompted him to take his bearings before he came up the mountain. These, from time to time, he corrected during his ascent, at the many places where he paused for breath. He knew, therefore, the exact direction of the town and harbour. Steering by the stars, he was under no apprehension of losing his way, and could make for the brigantine where she lay. Tightening his belt, then, he commenced the descent at a run, resolving to keep the path as long as he could see it, and when it was lost in the bush at last, to plunge boldly through till he reached the shore. The misadventure he foresaw soon came to pass. A path which he could hardly have followed by daylight, without Célandine to pilot him, soon disappeared from beneath his feet in the deepening gloom. He had not left the hut many minutes ere he was struggling, breast-high, amongst the wild vines and other creepers that twined and festooned in a tangle of vegetable network from tree to tree.