I never knew how the pilot obeyed this order, or how he managed the yacht; for, at the instant the cry of warning was heard, a horrible crash, followed by a loud, cracking sound, stopped the yacht short.
The shock was so violent that I, Williams, and two of the sailors, were thrown on the deck.
"The yacht is ashore!" cried Williams, as he got up. "Damn the pilot!"
My wound prevented me from rising as quickly as Williams. I was still lying on the deck, when some one rushed past me rapidly, a heavy body fell into the sea, and the pilot was no longer to be seen at the helm or on the deck.
Remembering my suspicion of the man, and forgetting the danger we were in, I rose up, and saw, at a gunshot's distance from us, the pilot-boat; its sailors were rowing hard towards a black spot, surrounded by foam, that I could easily see in the moonlight.
It was the pilot, who was swimming to get back to his boat.
"A gun! Give me a gun!" I cried out. "I knew it was he!"
At this moment the yacht struck for the second time on the rocks, and the mainmast fell, with a terrific crash.
Following the crash, there was a moment of silence and stupefaction, in which I heard these words in French, "Remember the mystic of Porquerolles!"
It was the pirate,—the yacht was a wreck.