“Fire at will!” yelled Wilson, again; and again the guns roared, not all together as before, but in a pitter-patter of rattling sound. Swiftly the search-light circled, picking out the boats for an instant as vivid bull’s-eyes for the concentration of the yacht’s fire; dancing away again to some fresh point. The yachtsmen were poor gunners, but at that range they could not miss. The revolving search-light soon showed an inextricable tangle of boats, drifting or turning unbalanced athwart the course of their companions, with oars dropping from dead fingers and men plunging limply after them into the embrace of the tide. Other boats showed for an instant in the glare, then sank beneath the shimmering water. But past and through all these, others kept their way, intent only on coming to hand-grips with the men of the yacht. In the gaps of sound, the same ringing voice still sounded, as the unseen commander incited his men to fresh efforts. For a moment fate hung in the balance. Then, as Caruth, pistol in hand, leaped down from the ladder to join in repelling the boarders who seemed about to swarm over the taffrail, the tide turned. The Russians, overtaxed, bewildered, hesitated and fled, some by boat, some by swimming; those who had gained the yacht’s shrouds leaped back in panic, careless whether planks or the Baltic lay beneath them. Captain Wilson’s deep voice rang out. “Cease firing!” he shouted. “Cease firing!” Silence followed storm. Then out of the night came a flash and a roar. A jet of ruddy flame shot from the cliff side toward the _Sea Spume_ and the skylight above the saloon vanished in a rain of splinters and flying glass. The search-light, flung to port, showed, high up on the cliffs, two heavy guns, armed and manned. Stupefied, the yachtsmen stared at them, unmoving, till again came a flash and a report and a rending roar as the yacht quivered to the impact of a shell. Captain Wilson woke to life. “Fire on that battery!” he yelled. “Mr. Caruth, get those divers up. We can’t stay here.” Blood flecked Caruth’s lip where he had bitten it through. “What!” he cried. “Run away and leave the gold to them? I won’t do it.” “You must!” “I won’t. I’ll----” A hand fell on the young man’s arm. Marie Fitzhugh stood beside him. “The gold is gone,” she moaned. “Gone!” “Yes! The strong room on the _Orkney_ has been broken open. The boxes are there, but they are empty. Some one has been before us. The gold is gone.” “Impossible.” “It’s true. I ordered the divers on board. They are coming over the side now. We must flee. Quick, Captain! Full speed ahead.” The engine bells clanged, and the yacht shook to the throb of the screws. Rapidly she gathered way. Another shot from the battery on the cliff hissed over her, and still another went wide. Then a turn in the channel shielded her from farther danger. It was not until half an hour later that it was learned that Professor Shishkin had disappeared. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN