Another's head appeared above the side, and there was another blow and a splash. Almost simultaneously Grote struck at another man with a capstan bar, and to avoid the blow, the man ducked his head, lost his hold, and, less fortunate than Mark had been, was hurled with a tremendous splash into the water, in company with the second man, while another got his head up in time to receive a crack which sent him also backward into the sea. The man holding on loosed his hold to save his companions, who were swimming; and as the Nautiluses at the cabin window breathlessly watched and saw them picked up, they became as much interested in the fate of one of the party as if he had been a friend. "Get an oar over," cried Mark. "Scull your boat to that man; he's going down." "The muddle-head!" cried Tom Fillot. "Can't he scull?" No doubt they were hard upon the man, who was doing his best. He had helped two men into the boat--no easy task when they are half-stunned, and by consequence comparatively helpless--and he had been doing his best to get to the others, who had paddled feebly and then thrown up their hands to grasp wildly at vacancy, so that the case began to look hopeless indeed. For, failing in his efforts to scull the boat along with one oar, and evidently getting confused in his excitement, the uninjured man now sat down on a thwart and got two oars over the side to begin to row to where a drowning man lay, fully a dozen yards from him. "Gone!" cried Tom Fillot, excitedly, as the boat was pulled to the place where the man had made a last feeble struggle and then sunk. Mark drew a deep breath, and uttered a faint groan, as the sailor stood up in the boat, hitcher in hand, looking wildly about. A volley of cries now came from the poop, just over where the prisoners were watching. Words of advice, orders, abuse, were hurled at the man's head, and Mark, as he watched, thought of his efforts in the cutter to save the blacks' lives, and it seemed to him like a natural form of retaliation coming upon the slavers' heads, as history almost repeated itself, with a difference. He was, he felt, spectator of a tragedy, and a cold sensation of horror almost paralysed him, but passed away instantly as he saw the man standing in the boat suddenly make a dash with the hook and draw something toward him. There was a cheer from the cabin window, as the boat careened over, and the nearly drowned man was dragged in. "Say, messmates," said Tom Fillot, rubbing one ear, "that can't be right." "What, Tom?" cried Mark, excitedly. "Why, sir, our cheering at an enemy being saved. We ought to be glad to see him drown, oughtn't we?" "It was the man, not the enemy, Tom," said Mark. "Course, sir. I see now; I couldn't make out why we cheered."