“Sure,” I call’d, “you don’t say he was never alarm’d!”
“Black Sampson was in his room—where’s Black Sampson?”
“Here I be!” cried a voice. “To be sure I woke the skipper before any o’ ye.”
“Then where’s he hid? Did any see him come out?”
“Now, that we have not!” answer’d one or two.
I stood by the house door shouting these questions to the men inside, when a hand was laid on my arm, and there in the shadow waited Billy himself, with a mighty curious twinkle in his eye. He put a finger up and signed that I should follow.
We pass’d round the outbuildings where, three hours before, Matt. Soames and I had hid together. I was minded to stop and pull on my boots, that were hid here: but (and this was afterward the saving of me) on second thoughts let them lie, and follow’d Billy, who now led me out by the postern gate.
Without speech we stepp’d across the turf, he a pace or two ahead. A night breeze was blowing here, delicious after the heat of the fire. We were walking quickly toward the east side of the headland, and soon the blaze behind flung our shadows right to the cliff’s edge, for which Billy made straight, as if to fling himself over.
But when, at the very verge, he pull’d up, I became enlighten’d. At our feet was an iron bar driven into the soil, and to it a stout rope knotted, that ran over a block and disappeared down the cliff. I knelt and, pulling at it softly, look’d up. It came easy in the hand.
Billy, with the glare in his face, nodded: and bending to my ear, for once achiev’d a whisper.