Then in a flash Mostyn remembered everything up to the time when he had lost consciousness--the treacherous attack upon his sleeping companions, his double fight against the four Arabs. Where were they now? He staggered to his feet, and would have fallen promptly had not Olive held him up. Carefully she piloted him to the coaming of the hatch. Although Peter's bodily strength was slow of recovery his brain was rapidly regaining its normal functions. Seated on the hatch, with the cool breeze fanning his face, he was able to take stock of his surroundings. The dhow was not under control. Her lateen foresail was aback. The masterless tiller was swaying to and fro as the vessel gathered stern way. Close to the mainmast were the disordered folds of the tent, on which lay the motionless forms of Preston and Mahmed. Reclining against the short poop-ladder was Mrs. Shallop, her brawny arms bared to the elbow, and her black hair grotesquely awry. Peter could have sworn that she was wearing a wig. Neither the two lascars nor the Arabs were to be seen, but the disordered, blood-stained deck bore traces of the desperate fight, while lying close to the fife-rail of the foremast was Mostyn's automatic. "Are they dead?" inquired the Wireless Officer, pointing to the bodies of the Acting Chief and Mahmed. Somehow he could not bring himself to mention them by name. "Mr. Preston's got a knife-thrust in the shoulder," replied Olive. "Mahmed has half a dozen wounds, but he's still living. We dressed their injuries as well as we could--Mrs. Shallop and I." "And where are the lascars?" "Locked in for'ard," announced the girl. "We thought we would let them stop there a bit until we sorted things out. The Arabs? Mrs. Shallop attended to them. I helped a bit. She wanted to throw them overboard. We lowered them into the after hold--all five." Peter swallowed another draught of water. He suspected, not without reason, that he presented a pretty sight in the starlight. His shirt had been split across both shoulders, his right knee showed through a long rent in his trousers. His hair was matted with dried blood; his face was scratched and his neck swollen and purple-coloured. In addition, he was bespattered with the blood of at least one of his vanquished antagonists. "We may as well release the lascars," he said "It's about time we got the dhow under control." Together Olive and Peter went for'ard and cut the lashings that secured the forepeak hatch. It was quite a considerable time before the lascars summoned up courage to appear, not knowing what had happened, although they had heard the struggle and guessed what was taking place. Fortunately they guessed wrongly. They were not in the power of the ferocious Arabs, and their relief was plain when they realized that Mostyn Sahib was still in command.