"I'll tell you, sir. It's because they've been beaten. I don't mean larruped with a stick, but beaten in some fight, and made prisoners up the country. Since then they've been chained and driven and starved and knocked about till all the man's gone out of 'em, and made 'em so that they haven't got a spark o' pluck left. You take 'em and treat 'em well, and it all comes back, like it did to poor old Soup and poor old Taters. They was fast growing into good, stiff, manly sort o' messmates, with nothing wrong in 'em but their black skins, and I don't see as that's anything agin a man. All a matter o' taste, sir. Dessay the black ladies thinks they're reg'lar han'some, and us and our white skins ugly as sin." "We must have that schooner, Tom Fillot," said Mark, after a short pause. "You've got it, sir, and we'll sail her up to the port with flying colours. You'll see." "I hope you'll turn out a true prophet, Tom." "So do I, sir, and I'm just going to whisper to the boys what you say, and then I'm thinking it'll soon be time to go on board and kick those chaps over the side." "No killing, Tom." "No, sir. You trust us. We won't go quite so far as that," said the sailor grimly; and he crept away to begin whispering to his messmates, while Mark sat straining his eyes in the direction of the schooner, hot, excited, but without the slightest sensation of shrinking. This had given place to an intense longing for action, which made his heart beat with a heavy throb, while, from time to time, there was a strange swelling in his throat, as he thought of the agony of the poor creatures pent-up in the stifling heat of the schooner's hold, some of them, perhaps, dying, others dead, and waiting to join their fellows in the silent waters, happily released from their pain. He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not notice Tom Fillot's return, and he gave quite a start as the man laid a hand upon his knee. "Look there, sir," he whispered. "Eh? where?" "Over the trees, behind me." "Fire?" whispered Mark, excitedly, as he gazed at a warm glow away beyond the forest. "No, sir; the moon. She'll soon be up, and we must have that schooner in the dark." "Then we'll begin at once," said Mark, decisively. "Right, sir. The lads have some of 'em got their cutlashes, and them as ain't have each got two good hard fists; and it strikes me as they'll use 'em too. So when you're ready, sir, give the word." Mark felt for his dirk, which was safe in his belt, and then thought of the quiet little parsonage at home, and of the horror that would assail his mother if she could know of the perilous enterprise upon which he was bound. Then came the recollection of his grave, stern-looking father, and of what would be his feelings. "Would he say don't go?" thought Mark. The answer seemed to come at once. "No; he'd say, `It's your duty, boy. In God's name go and do your best.'"