"Easy it is, sir," said Tom, and they rowed gently on with the current, getting nearer and nearer the shore with its heavy fringe of verdure, Mark watching eagerly in the gathering blackness for a big tree with overhanging boughs, but all in vain. It was so dark now that they seemed to be gliding along right in the shadow, while more out towards the middle of what was evidently a broad river--the stream widening above the mouth--it was comparatively light, sufficiently so for them to see any object afloat. "Can't you make anything we can hook on to, sir?" said Tom Fillot. "No, my lad, not yet. But I shall directly. You be ready." "Ready it is, sir. If I see a chance, shall I ketch hold?" "_Hist_!" "What's the matter, sir?" "Talk lower. What's that? It may be enemies." "Phew!" whistled Tom Fillot, softly. "It was behind me. I didn't see that. There, you have it." He caught hold of the overhanging bough of a tree and brought the boat up as they both stood there watching a gleaming light at a little distance, which gradually was made out to be a lanthorn carried by someone here and there. "Ashore," whispered Mark. "Afloat," said Tom. "It's somebody aboard ship. Hark at that!" There was the rattle of a chain, apparently being let out through the hawse-holes of a vessel, then a little more rattling, followed by the disappearance of the light, and silence once more. "What do you make of it, sir?" whispered Tom. As he spoke there came a strange, plaintive, smothered sound, so full of agony that Mark shuddered. "I can hardly tell," he said. "I thought at first it was the _Nautilus_." "No, sir; people on board the _Naughtylass_ don't howl like that." "Then--no: it can't be! Is it the slaver?" faltered Mark, as his heart beat rapidly with excitement. "It's she or another on the cowardly beggars," whispered Tom Fillot, hoarsely. "Don't make a sound, my lads." "But oh, it can't be," cried Mark, trembling now with eagerness. "Don't see why not, sir. She was bound to go into hiding a bit till our ship had gone, and she's crept in here to lie by, and sail perhaps when the tide turns." "Take a turn with a rope round that branch, Tom," whispered Mark; "and not a sound." "Trust me, sir, for that," was whispered back; and there was a little rustling heard as Mark carefully made his way in the darkness to where Tom Fillot stood. "Sit down," whispered Mark. "I want all the men to hear. Lean this way, all of you." There was another rustling sound, and a certain amount of deep breathing as Mark whispered softly,-- "Mind, not a word when I've done, or we shall be heard aboard that vessel. She's not two hundred yards away." There was not a sound, and after waiting a few moments to command his voice and to try and stay the tumultuous beating of his heart, Mark went on,-- "My lads, that must be the schooner waiting, as Tom Fillot said."