“Have you a rope, Strong?” said Gregory in a low voice.
There was no reply, but the glowing end of the cigar disappeared from where it shone some fifteen feet above their heads, and at the end of a few minutes something was lowered down, which proved to be so many sheets tightly rolled up and knotted together.
The first-mate seized the extemporised cord and drew hard upon it to see if it would bear. It proved to be made quite fast, so he turned to Mark:
“Now, young un,” he said, “you can climb that rope. Go up and hear from your father how matters stand.”
Mark said nothing, but seized the soft cord, and, with the mate’s help, was soon half-way up, but the rest, as he quitted the support of the mate’s shoulders, was more difficult. Still, the knots helped him, the distance was short, and, after a little exertion, he felt a couple of strong hands passed under his arms, when, after a bit of scuffling and plenty of hoist, he felt himself half-lifted in at the cabin-window, and the next instant clasped in a pair of softly-clinging arms.
“My poor boy!” whispered Mrs Strong.
“Hist! don’t speak! Don’t make a sound!” said the captain sternly. “There may be a sentry at the door.”
“But, father, are you hurt?”
“A little, my boy; not much,” said the captain.
“Terribly, Mark,” whispered Mrs Strong; and the lad felt a shudder run through him.