his pocket, firing point blank at the great mountain of muscle
towering before him; but, quick as he was, John Clayton was
almost as quick, so that the bullet which was intended for the
sailor's heart lodged in the sailor's leg instead, for Lord
Greystoke had struck down the captain's arm as he had seen
the weapon flash in the sun.

Words passed between Clayton and the captain, the former
making it plain that he was disgusted with the brutality
displayed toward the crew, nor would he countenance anything
further of the kind while he and Lady Greystoke remained
passengers.

The captain was on the point of making an angry reply,
but, thinking better of it, turned on his heel and black and
scowling, strode aft.

He did not care to antagonize an English official, for the
Queen's mighty arm wielded a punitive instrument which he could
appreciate, and which he feared--England's far-reaching navy.

The two sailors picked themselves up, the older man assisting
his wounded comrade to rise. The big fellow, who was
known among his mates as Black Michael, tried his leg gingerly,
and, finding that it bore his weight, turned to Clayton
with a word of gruff thanks.

Though the fellow's tone was surly, his words were evidently
well meant. Ere he had scarce finished his little speech he
had turned and was limping off toward the forecastle with the