As he spoke there came a strange, plaintive, smothered sound, so full of agony that Mark shuddered.
“I can hardly tell,” he said. “I thought at first it was the Nautilus.”
“No, sir; people on board the Naughtylass don’t howl like that.”
“Then—no: it can’t be! Is it the slaver?” faltered Mark, as his heart beat rapidly with excitement.
“It’s she or another on the cowardly beggars,” whispered Tom Fillot, hoarsely. “Don’t make a sound, my lads.”
“But oh, it can’t be,” cried Mark, trembling now with eagerness.
“Don’t see why not, sir. She was bound to go into hiding a bit till our ship had gone, and she’s crept in here to lie by, and sail perhaps when the tide turns.”
“Take a turn with a rope round that branch, Tom,” whispered Mark; “and not a sound.”
“Trust me, sir, for that,” was whispered back; and there was a little rustling heard as Mark carefully made his way in the darkness to where Tom Fillot stood.
“Sit down,” whispered Mark. “I want all the men to hear. Lean this way, all of you.”