"Ay!" came back Estada's voice, swept aside by the wind, yet still
audible. "Stand by to fend us off. Call all hands, and break anchor as
soon as we are aboard."

"Very well, sir. Where is Captain Sanchez?"

Estada pointed downward in swift, expressive gesture.

"Here at my feet--badly hurt, but will recover. Send two men down to
help when we make fast. Now, Cochose--let go of your rope; watch out
above!"

I stood, gripping hard at the rail, and staring down at the scene
below, as the men in the boat made fast. I felt paralyzed, and
helpless, unable to move. I had no business to remain there; every
prospect of security depended on my joining the crew, but it was not
in my power to desert my position. I could hear the hurrying feet of
the watch tramping across the deck in response to LeVere's orders; the
heavy pounding of a marling-spike on the forecastle hatch, as Haines
called for all hands. I was aware that men were already mounting the
ratlines, and laying out on the upper yards to make sail, while the
capstan bars began rattling. Yet only one thought gripped me--_Sanchez
was not dead_! I had believed he was; I had staked all on his death as
a certainty. But instead, the man was lying there in the boat,
helpless at present, sorely wounded perhaps, yet still alive. Estada
even said he would surely recover. And that other body? That of
Dorothy Fairfax, without doubt, yet certainly not lifeless. Those
fellows would surely never bring back to the _Namur_ the useless, dead
form of one of their victims. That was unthinkable, impossible. If