The door opened at that exact moment, and the stalwart form of Ethan Carlyle stood before them, his pistol pointed at their heads and his hanger ready in his hand. “You are wrong in that, sir,” remarked the lad coolly; “for here is one at your side.” “What does this mean?” exclaimed Captain Spencer, leaping up. “It means that you are my prisoners,” observed Ethan, in an even tone. “Sit down and don’t become excited. It will do no good.” [Illustration:_ETHAN CARLYLE STOOD BEFORE THEM_] “Draw, Blake,” roared the schooner’s captain, as he flashed out his blade. But he had scarcely lifted it when the sword of the young American swept downward like a flash and knocked it from his hand; then a blow from the flat of the weapon sent him back against the cabin wall. “The next effort at resistance,” said Ethan, “will meet with a shot from this,” and he presented the pistol once more. “What do you want, boy?” demanded Blake, as he stood hesitating, his hand upon his sword. “I want you to take your belt and tie the captain’s hands behind him.” “I’ll not do it,” cried Blake. “I’ll give you just one minute to make up your mind,” said Ethan. The mate of the British schooner looked into the boy’s set, determined face: nothing but resolve were in the quiet eyes; and so the man reluctantly did as he was commanded. Then Ethan called to the dragoon and Longsword came down into the cabin with a couple of lengths of rope; in a short time the two officers were safely bound, and the cabin ransacked for arms; all the muskets, pistols and other things of the sort were taken upon deck; then the cabin was locked with the glowering officers within it. “Now then, look alive,” cried Ethan as they reached the deck once more. Across the waters of the cove stole a faint thread of light; the wind had continued to blow steadily, and the clouds had almost drifted off the face of the moon. “Hark!” said Longsword, lifting a silencing hand. From the direction of the shore came the steady “creak, creak” of oars; across the trail of moonlight a large boat was seen to dart, coming toward the schooner. “It’s Danvers and the rest of the men,” cried Ethan. “They’ll be here before we can get up the anchor,” said Longsword. “Then we’ll impress help,” said Ethan briefly. Stepping to the sides of the men lashed to the mast he cut their bonds with his hanger. “Now then, my lads,” said he, “lend a hand at the capstan.” For a moment the men hesitated; they had caught sight of the advancing boat, and knew that it meant help; but the Irish dragoon’s pistol poked itself into their faces without any parleying, and in another instant the capstan was clanking merrily, and the heavy anchor was being drawn from the bottom of the cove. Then the seamen lent a reluctant hand at hoisting the mainsail and the jibs. As the wheel whirled under the skilful hands of Ethan Carlyle, the hanging canvas filled and the foot of the schooner broke the first ripple on her way seaward.