“Is Hilary Leigh there?” cried another voice, one which made the young man start as he recognised that of Sir Harry Norland.
“Yes, sir, I am here,” he said after a moment’s pause.
“Tell your men to surrender quietly, Mr Leigh, and if they give their word not to attempt rescue or escape they will have two of the cutter’s boats given to them, and they can row ashore.”
“And what about the cutter, Sir Henry?” said Hilary quietly.
“She is our lawful prize,” was the reply.
“And no mistake,” said the rough, harsh voice, which Hilary recognised now as that of the apparently stupid skipper of the chasse marée.
“Come up first, Mr Leigh,” said Sir Henry; “but leave your arms below. I give you my word that you shall not be hurt.”
“I cannot give you my word that you will not be hurt, Sir Henry, if you do not keep out of danger,” cried Hilary. “We are all coming on deck, cutlass in one hand, pistol in the other. Now, my lads! Forward!”
Madness or no madness he made a dash, and at the same moment Tom Tully struck upwards with his iron bar, sweeping aside the presented muskets, half of which were fired with the effect that their bullets were buried in the woodwork round the hatch.
What took place during those next few moments Hilary did not know, only that he made a spring to mount the cabin-ladder and got nearly out at the hatch, but as Tom Tully and another man sprang forward at the same moment they hindered one another, when there was a few moments’ interval of fierce struggling, the sound of oaths and blows, a few shots were fired by the marines through the cabin skylight, and then Hilary found himself lying on the lower deck under Tom Tully, listening to the banging down of the cabin-hatch.