The revenue men drew back and sheathed their cutlasses, and laid down their guns; some looked with terror at one another, and some at their dead commander. His body lay across the heel of the mast, which had been unstepped at his order; and a heavy drip of blood was weltering into a ring upon the floor. For several moments no one spoke, nor moved, nor listened carefully; but the fall of the poor lieutenant's death-drops, like the ticking of a clock, went on. Until an old tar, who had seen a sight of battles, crooked his legs across a thwart, and propped up the limp head upon his doubled knee. “Dead as a door-nail,” he muttered, after laying his ear to the lips, and one hand on the too impetuous heart, “Who takes command? This is a hanging job, I'm thinking.” There was nobody to take command, not even a petty officer. The command fell to the readiest mind, as it must in such catastrophes. “Jem, you do it,” whispered two or three; and being so elected, he was clear. “Lay her broadside on to the mouth of the cave. Not a man stirs out without killing me,” old Jem shouted; and to hear a plain voice was sudden relief to most of them. In the wavering dimness they laid the pinnace across the narrow entrance, while the smugglers huddled all together in their boat. “Burn two blue-lights,” cried old Jem; and it was done. “I'm not going to speechify to any cursed murderers,” the old sailor said, with a sense of authority which made him use mild language; “but take heed of one thing, I'll blow you all to pieces with this here four-pounder, without you strikes peremptory.” The brilliance of the blue-lights filled the cavern, throwing out everybody's attitude and features, especially those of the dead lieutenant. “A fine job you have made of it this time!” said Jem. They were beaten, they surrendered, they could scarcely even speak to assert their own innocence of such a wicked job. They submitted to be bound, and cast down into their boat, imploring only that it might be there--that they might not be taken to the other boat and laid near the corpse of Carroway. “Let the white-livered cowards have their way,” the old sailor said, contemptuously. “Put their captain on the top of them. Now which is Robin Lyth?” The lights were burned out, and the cave was dark again, except when a slant of moonlight came through a fissure upon the southern side. The smugglers muttered something, but they were not heeded. “Never mind, make her fast, fetch her out, you lubbers. We shall see him well enough when we get outside.” But in spite of all their certainty, they failed of this. They had only six prisoners, and not one of them was Lyth. CHAPTER XXXV LITTLE CARROWAYS