“No tricks . . . I am alone . . . _alone_,” Ortho bawled, pulling furiously. He could hear the vessel plainly now, the creak of her tackle as she felt the breeze. “Keep off there, or I’ll blow you to bits.” “If you fire a gun you’ll call the whole town out,” Ortho warned. “What town?” “Sallee.” “Christ!” the voice ejaculated and repeated his words. “He says we’re off Sallee, sir.” Ortho pulled on. He could see the vessel by this, a blurred shadow among the steamy wraiths of mist, a big three-master close-hauled on the port tack. Said a second voice from aft: “Knock his bottom out if he attempts to board . . . no chances.” “Boat ahoy,” hailed the first voice. “If you come alongside I’ll sink you, you bloody pirate. Keep off.” Ortho stopped rowing. They were going to leave him. Forty yards away was an English ship—England. He was missing England by forty yards, England and the Owls’ House! He jerked at his oars, tugged the shallop directly in the track of the ship and slipped overboard. They might be able to see his boat, but his head was too small a mark. If he missed what he was aiming at he was finished; he could never regain that boat. It was neck or nothing now, the last lap, the final round. He struck to meet the vessel—only a few yards. She swayed towards him, a chuckle of water at her cut-water; tall as a cliff she seemed, towering out of sight. The huge bow loomed over him, poised and crushed downwards as though to ride him under, trample him deep. The sheer toppling bulk, the hiss of riven water snapped his last shred of courage. It was too much. He gave up, awaited the instant stunning crash upon his head, saw the great bowsprit rush across a shining patch of stars, knew the end had come at last, thumped against the bows and found himself pinned by the weight of water, his head still up. His hands, his unfailing hands had saved him again; he had hold of the bob-stay! The weight of water was not really great, the ship had little more than steerage way. Darkness had magnified his terrors. He got across the stay without much difficulty, worked along it to the dolphin-striker, thence by the martingale to the fo’csle. The look-out were not aware of his arrival until he was amongst them; they were watching the tiny smudge that was his boat. He noticed that they had round-shot ready to drop into it. “Good God!” the mate exclaimed. “Who are you?” “The man who hailed just now, sir.” “But I thought . . . I thought you were in that boat.” “I was, sir, but I swam off.” “Good God!” said the mate again and hailed the poop. “Here’s this fellow come aboard after all, sir. He’s quite alone.” An astonished “How the devil?” “Swam, sir.” “Pass him aft.” Ortho was led aft. Boarding nettings were triced up and men lay between the upper deck guns girded with side arms. Shot were in the garlands and match-tubs filled, all ready. A well-manned, well-appointed craft. He asked the man who accompanied him her name.