Loud shouts pursued him. The camp was aroused. Picking himself up, feeling breathless and dazed, he sped across the sandy stretch of beach and sent a sounding hail in the direction of the yacht; perchance his voice might carry above the rustle of the surf and the cries of his pursuers. He heard men scurrying down a path in the cliff somewhere behind him; then their footsteps on the light shingle that lay above the sand. Even if his cry had been heard on the yacht, it was impossible that a boat should reach him before he was overtaken. There was only one way to safety. He plunged into the surf, and struck out towards the vessel. A shot followed him, but he cared nothing for that; in the darkness it would puzzle an expert marksman to hit him, when nothing of him could be seen but a head bobbing up and down. Not till he had swum well out of the reach of his pursuers, who had not followed him into the sea, did the thought of sharks cross his mind. Then he trod water for a little, and, making a bell of his hands, sent another prolonged cry across the water. Is that an answering hail? He shouts once more; yes, a cry comes back to him: “Ahoy-o!” But at the same moment he hears also the sound of paddles, to his right, apparently from a bend of the shore. The Moors have not given him up, then. Again he presses on, putting all his force into a strong side-stroke. Now another sound falls upon his ear; the welcome sound of oars plied sturdily in rowlocks. The yacht’s boat is coming to meet him. But the pursuers are the nearer—will his friends arrive in time? His long exertions since he left the yacht, his want of food and sleep, have robbed him of his strength. His pace becomes slower and slower. The pursuers’ boat is coming up behind, while yet the beat of oars before him sounds terribly distant. But he is still swimming; every yard he makes is a yard added to the speed of the friendly boat. He struggled on; and the Moors were still some distance behind when, gasping and spent, he was helped by Timothy and another into his ark of safety. But the boat did not head at once for the yacht. “Give way, men!” cried Captain Bodgers himself, at the tiller. He pointed the nose of the boat straight for the Moors’ light craft. Eight sturdy British sailors pulled with a will. There was a crash, a cry, and a dozen Moors were in the water, struggling to right their capsized boat. “That’s all right. Now we’ll get back, my men,” said Captain Bodgers, and some few minutes thereafter Tom was assisted up the side of the yacht, and into the arms of Mr. Greatorex. “God bless my soul, what has happened?” said the worthy merchant. “We’ve got him—Ingleton,” murmured Tom faintly. “He’s with Oliphant, captured again. Schwab’s in the cave with Abdul.” “He’s light-headed, poor fellow!” said Mr. Greatorex. “Here, some one, blankets, and brandy—look _alive_ now.”