“No, it would be slaughtering the poor wretches down below; never mind, sir, we’ll capture her directly. She’s ours, safe.”
“Then the sooner the better,” said Bob to his companion.
The firing continued, and the crews of the two guns which sent their shot in chase vied with each other in their efforts to hit a spar and bring down the sails of the schooner; but they tried in vain. Sails were pierced, but no other harm was done, and the slaver kept gallantly on.
But all her efforts were in vain. The Nautilus crept on and on, nearer and nearer, till she was only about a quarter of a mile away, and then the slaver altered her course, and gained a little by her quick handling. But the Nautilus was after again, and after two or three of these manoeuvres Captain Maitland was able to anticipate her next attempt to escape, and all seemed over.
“I wonder how many poor wretches she has on board?” tried Mark, excitedly, as the word was passed for one of the boat’s crews to be ready for boarding as soon as the slaver captain struck the flag he had run up in defiance.
“Hundreds perhaps,” said Bob, coolly; “but we haven’t got her yet.”
“No; but they’re going to give in now. I can see the captain quite plainly,” said Mark, who was using a glass. “What are they doing? Oh, Bob, look!”
For through the glass he saw what seemed to be a struggle on the moonlit deck, and directly after there was a splash.
“Great heavens!” cried Captain Maitland. “Staples! Look! They’re throwing the poor fellows overboard.”
“No,” said the first lieutenant, with his glass to his eye; “only one.”