The Moors left the yacht; the felucca sailed away; not shorewards, as Tom had expected, but out to sea. The crowd on the cliff dispersed and disappeared, and Tom’s final preparations were made unobserved. Night fell, and the little bay, hemmed in by the surrounding cliffs, was enveloped in pitchy darkness. Ten o’clock had been fixed as the time for the ascent of the airship, and up to the last moment Tom employed himself in seeing that all was right. Mr. Greatorex was fidgety, asking the same questions, repeating the same warnings, over and over again, until Tom began to fear that even now he would change his mind and prohibit the expedition. His excitement infected every member of the crew. The men had eyes only for the wonderful machine and for the figures that moved to and fro about it in the light of the yacht’s electric lamps. Even the men of the watch were diverted from their duties when they perceived that the lashings holding the airship to the deck were being cast loose. Thus it was that no one had observed a small craft gliding into the bay; no one had noticed that a rope hung over the side of the yacht from the main deck forward; no one was on the look-out when a dusky form clambered silently up and helped to lower Salathiel ben Ezra into the boat riding alongside. But it happened that Timothy Ball, going forward at that moment to fetch his reefer, which he had left in the fore cabin, noticed what was afoot just as he reached the companion way. With a shout he dashed forward to lay hands on the intruder. But, quick as thought, the Moor whipped out a knife and struck at Timothy; and when the sailors came running to the spot they found the poor fellow groaning on the deck, and caught a glimpse of a felucca speeding away into the gloom. CHAPTER VII—THE HILLS OF ZEMMUR For the moment the airship was forgotten. The whole ship’s company flocked to the foredeck and formed a group around the prostrate form of Timothy Ball. Tom was already on his knees beside the man, putting in practice the principles of first aid, and receiving unexpected assistance from M’Cracken, who showed remarkable adeptness. “How did it _happen_?” cried Mr. Greatorex, supposing that his man’s plight was due to some accident. “The Jew!” said Timothy, faintly. “The villain! Bring him _here_, some one.” “He ain’t here, sir; went over the side. It wasn’t him that stabbed me; it was a Moor that came up out of a boat and helped the Jew to get away. Never mind me, sir; I’m all right.” Mr. Greatorex fumed. “This puts a _stop_ to it, Tom. It’s a villainous business, and we’ll go straight back home.” Tom made no reply. He was completing the adjustment of a tourniquet. “And we’ve no doctor on board!” Mr. Greatorex went on. “We’ll run back to Gibraltar and get assistance. Can’t let the poor fellow bleed to _death_, you know.” “He’ll no bleed to death,” said M’Cracken huskily. “It’s just a wee flesh wound. He’ll be a’ richt in a twa-three days.”