There was another rustling sound, and a certain amount of deep breathing as Mark whispered softly,—
“Mind, not a word when I’ve done, or we shall be heard aboard that vessel. She’s not two hundred yards away.”
There was not a sound, and after waiting a few moments to command his voice and to try and stay the tumultuous beating of his heart, Mark went on,—
“My lads, that must be the schooner waiting, as Tom Fillot said.”
He paused again, for his words would hardly come. Then, more and more huskily from his emotion:
“My lads, I know you’re weak, but you’ve got the pluck. The crew of that schooner stole upon us in the night, struck you all down, and pitched us into the boat.”
There was another pause—a longer one, for it required a desperate effort to get out the words. Then, so faintly as to be hardly heard, but with a strength in them which electrified the listeners, Mark Vandean, midshipman and mere boy, said to the stout men around him,—
“It’s dark as pitch now, lads, so couldn’t we steal aboard and serve them the same?”