It was a long shot, and at first Andrew thought that it had missed. Then he saw Mr. Cave hitch, queerly, in his stride, get on again, and then collapse slowly into the ground, as if quicksand had taken him. A form that must have been Sparta's, for it had streaming hair, ran out of an eddy of conflict and fell upon the body like a dog on a grave. "The wharves!" called the clear, sharp voice, weaker now, but still very joyous. "Head them off from the wharves, you Greeks--they're making for the wharves!" They were running again. There was clamor and a flare behind them, where men hunted other men in the moon-splashed darkness like terriers chasing rats in a moonlit barn. Sebastian was ahead of him--behind there were many, but the beaten Italians were throwing their weapons away and calling "Surrender--Surrender--" in high, shrill voices. Andrew threw a glance over his shoulder, and saw, in a nightmare flicker, a fellow twenty yards behind him stare stupidly at a point of steel that stuck abruptly out of his breast and fall, tripping the man who had run him through the back. Then the ground under Andrew's feet rang hollow suddenly--the wharf. He slipped on greasy wood--was down on his knees--up again. "Here" called Caterina's voice--he caught at a hand--leapt--sprawled into the bottom of a rocking boat. There was an oar somewhere--he grabbed at it and began to splash with it furiously. They were moving away from the wharf now, but the damn sail wouldn't catch the wind. _Row_! The boat seemed to stick in the water like a bug in a stream of molasses but the gap between it and the wharf was widening--just in time, for there was shouting behind them now. He stole a glance back. There was the man with the bloody face. His left arm dangled at his side like a broken stick. He was yelling something and pointing. There was a ragged spatter of sound--something jumped under Andrew's oar like a frog taking water--he heard a gasp from the bow of the boat. "Hit, Caterina?" he called, but "No, no," said a voice. Then the sail filled at last, and the wind and the current took them. The man with the bloody face was shouting and dancing up and down, but his voice was fainter. They swept around a curve, he was blotted out. There was nothing left of New Sparta but a confused, diminishing uproar and a dying redness in the sky. He stopped splashing with his oar and put it down. The boat must be the little pleasure-boat which he and Sparta had used in their expeditions for turtle, Andrew noticed now. He wondered how seaworthy it would be when they got outside the bay. Another thought struck him. Carlos, the boy, who was to have been with them. "What happened to Carlos?" he said. "At the last moment, he was afraid," said Caterina, calmly. "So he went with them." "With who?" "With the other Minorcans. They heard they were to be killed tonight, so they went away." "Went away! In God's name, how could they go away?"