As he did so a hideous chorus of shrieks and screams, which rose high above the sounds of strife, rent the air; and a number of terrified slaves burst open the flimsy bamboo deck and, rushing up in a body, began throwing themselves overboard as if in fear of their lives. Many of these poor creatures, unable to swim, sank at once beneath the surface. The scene of confusion on board the dhow was now indescribable. In the midst of it Lobb, scimitar in hand, ran up to the middy. "I've killed the captain of these slaver-men," he said excitedly, "and the rest of the beggars was so took aback at the loss of their chieftain that they caved in and laid down their arms. The ship is yours, sir, but we must do our best to prevent these slaves escaping. Mad as March hares, the lot of 'em seems to be, and that's the truth!" By dint of almost superhuman efforts, the middy and his men succeeded in pacifying the terrified Africans who still remained on board. A good many had reached the shore, and were clambering up the rocks in a wet and dripping state. The Arabs had been disarmed and the wounded men were being attended to when young Thring and his followers were thunderstruck by hearing a loud and piercing cry from amongst the cliff-like rocks on shore: "Help! help!" "The voice of an Englishman!" exclaimed Lobb, in the greatest astonishment; "well, that beats everything as----" He was interrupted by an agonising shout from Thring, who staggered back as if he had been shot: "It's Villiers! it's Jack Villiers!" There could be no doubt about it. Extraordinary as it may appear, there undoubtedly was the mid of the maintop--supposed to be fathoms deep in an ocean grave--with his arms bound behind him, being hurried away inland by a small party of armed Arabs who had just a few moments before emerged from a cave amongst the rocks immediately above the spot where the dhow lay at anchor. As Thring gazed in a petrified manner at the flying group, he saw to his horror that one of the Arabs had felled his chum to the ground with a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. CHAPTER IV. Some of my young readers may possibly have guessed that they would hear of Jack Villiers again. "There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft and looks after the life of poor Jack," isn't there? Of course there is, but still, one may tempt Providence too far, and I cannot help feeling extremely nervous when I think of the very awkward fix my hero is undoubtedly in, for his Arab captors were very much inclined to assassinate him at this crisis in his fate, as they attributed their misfortune in losing the dhow entirely to his enforced presence amongst them; whereas we know that it was nothing of the sort, the discovery of their vessel having been the result of a pure accident.