“Get the plug back,” said the señor, “the vessel is sinking, you must bale the rest.”
Half a minute more and it was done; then, at a word from the boatswain, the sailors lowered away—they had not far to go—and we were afloat, and, better still, quite clear of the ship.
Scarcely had they brought the head of the cutter round and pulled three or four strokes, when from the deck of the Santa Maria there came the sound of a man’s voice crying for help, and by the light of the moon we discovered the figure of Don José Moreno clinging to the broken bulwarks, that now were almost awash.
“For the love of God, come back to me!” he screamed.
The oarsmen hesitated, but the boatswain said, with an Indian oath:
“Pull on and let the dog drown.”
It seemed as if Don José heard him, at least he raised so piteous a wailing that the señor’s heart, which was always over-tender, was touched by it.
“We cannot desert the man,” he answered, “put back for him.”
“He tried to murder you just now,” shouted the boatswain, “and if we go near the ship, she will take us down with her.”
Then he turned to me and asked, “Do you command us to put back, lord?”