“The brig be gettin’ ’er range on us,” continued Mr. Nye, “which may mak’ it a bit ark’ard for a minute or two, ’specially for the young ’ooman—best take ’er below, sirs.” And away he lurched for a word with the steersman, while Sir John made his way to her who clung, staring wide-eyed at their oncoming, relentless pursuer. “Rose,” said he, “I will see you below!” “Sir,” she answered, “you will no such thing!” “There is danger on deck here!” “So is there below.” “Will you obey me?” “Never!” “Then I shall carry you.” “Then I shall kick!” “Egad!” he exclaimed; “I believe you would!” “I’ faith, sir,” she nodded, “I vow I should!” Here, meeting each other’s glance, they laughed; then he was beside her and had caught her hand. “Rose child, if I begged you to leave the deck——” “’Twould be of none avail!” she answered, her eyes very bright. “This is life!” “And in the midst of life we are in death!” he retorted. “Then if death come I prefer to die here in the sun and wind.” “Ha’ you no fear, child?” “Not of death!” “Of what, then?” “Of myself!” she answered, turning to glance at their pursuer again. “Why of yourself?” But ere she could reply he had leapt and dragged her beneath him to the deck as the guns roared again, followed by a clamour of shouts and cries forward, a confusion of dismayed shouting and a great flapping of rent canvas as the _True Believer_, swinging up into the wind, lay a fair target for the Preventive brig’s gunnery. A shot furrowed her deck abaft the mainmast, another crashed through her bulwarks aft and, struck by a flying splinter, Sir Hector staggered and brought up against the lee-rail grasping at torn and bloody sleeve. “Dinna fash ye’sel’, John lad!” he panted, as Sir John leapt to him. “Toots, man, let be! ’Tis nae mair than a wee scratch—though painfu’ forbye. But wha’s come tae a’ the lads? Sharkie!” he roared; “Sharkie man, ye’ll no’ strike tae the de’ils yonder?” “Not me, y’r honour,” answered Mr. Nye, signalling to the steersman; “leastways, not while I’ve a sail as will draw——” “An’ will ye let ’em shoot ye tae pieces an’ gi’e ’em nothing in return? O man, hae ye no arteelery?” “Aye, sir, a tidy piece under the tarpaulin yonder. But Lord love ’ee, sir, to fire agin a King’s ship is treason, piracy, murder, Execution Dock and damnation——” “What o’ that, Sharkie? Wull ye look at me arrm?” “I’ll whip my neckerchief round it, y’r honour——” “Ye’ll no sic thing till I’ve tried a shot at yon deevils. Haul ye gun aft, Sharkie; I was an arteelery officer, y’ ken——” “No, no, y’r honour; we’ll be on our course again so soon as we’ve rove new running-gear and——” “Hoot, Sharkie—wull ye look at my arrm? An’ see yonder, they’re comin’ up wi’ us fast ... their next broadside should sink us. Aft wi’ the gun, Sharkie, and I’ll dae me best tae haud ’em off a while.”