“Tell Hugh,” said Vytal, in a short whisper, “to overpower the pilot when again I whistle thus, and with a stout rope to make fast his arms; but first procure another helmsman you can trust. For your own part, go to the hatches above the hold. If the pilot gives outcry, and his crew strive to pass you, warn the first man whose head appears, and if he heed not the warning, run him through. They can come but singly. ’Tis within your power to withstand them all.” “Of a verity, captain, well within it; but the work is tame. They stand no chance.” “Mark you, no bloodshed if you can help it. And tell Hugh the same. At the sound of the whistle, then, some time before daybreak.” “Thank you,” and Roger went his way. “Wherefore does he thank you?” asked Marlowe. “Oh, ’tis ever so; a thousand thanks when I give him work like this to do.” And for a moment the eyes of both followed Prat, whose rotund figure could be seen beneath the ship’s lanthorn. He was walking on tiptoe, which gave him a grotesque appearance, and the end of his long scabbard was just visible as he held it out behind him to prevent its chape from dragging on the deck. “A peculiar fellow,” remarked the poet, to whom all men were books demanding his perusal. “A man!” said Vytal. And they waited for many minutes in silence. “Let us make sure,” suggested Christopher, at last, “that the men are in their places.” Vytal turned to him with a look of resentment, or, more accurately, an expression of wounded pride. “You know them not.” “Yea, well. But plans miscarry.” “I repeat, you know not the men;” with which, as though to deride the other then and there with proof of his absolute reliance, Vytal whistled the short note shriller and louder than before. Even as it died away there came a deep oath from the stern and a sound as of metal clanking on the deck. In another second there was a pistol-shot, then a desperate silence. “Let us hasten,” cried Marlowe, “to their assistance!” “Nay, let us rather go and question the prisoner.” This expression of confidence was fully repaid by the sight that met their eyes. For there on the deck, near the helm, flat on his back, lay the bulky pilot, so bound with a rope winding from head to foot that he could not move so much as a finger in remonstrance. As Vytal and Marlowe arrived on the scene, Hugh Rouse, smiling broadly, held a light over the prone figure as though to exhibit his handiwork. “A ceroon of rubbish,” he said. “Shall we cast him into the sea?” “Nay, let him lie here.” Vytal turned to the pilot’s substitute at the helm, who had come thither at the request of Roger Prat. “Loyal?” he queried, taking the lanthorn from Rouse and holding it high, so that the rays fell athwart the new steersman’s face. “Ay, loyal; the fly-boat’s mate, sir, at your service.” “What proof?” “None, save this,” and leaning forward he whispered the name “Raleigh” in Vytal’s ear. “Your own name?” “Dyonis Harvie.”