“Fire?” whispered Mark, excitedly, as he gazed at a warm glow away beyond the forest.
“No, sir; the moon. She’ll soon be up, and we must have that schooner in the dark.”
“Then we’ll begin at once,” said Mark, decisively.
“Right, sir. The lads have some of ’em got their cutlashes, and them as ain’t have each got two good hard fists; and it strikes me as they’ll use ’em too. So when you’re ready, sir, give the word.”
Mark felt for his dirk, which was safe in his belt, and then thought of the quiet little parsonage at home, and of the horror that would assail his mother if she could know of the perilous enterprise upon which he was bound. Then came the recollection of his grave, stern-looking father, and of what would be his feelings.
“Would he say don’t go?” thought Mark.
The answer seemed to come at once.
“No; he’d say, ‘It’s your duty, boy. In God’s name go and do your best.’”
“I’m ready, Tom Fillot,” he said half aloud, as he felt for and seized the rudder-lines. “Now, my lads.”
There was a low buzz of excitement, and then, in obedience to an order, a couple of oars were softly thrust into the water. Dance stood ready, but there was no boathook, and he fretfully asked what he was to do.