“To your stations, my lads, and we will rid the seas of the villains yet!” shouted the captain.
The brig carried little cargo, and that of a light description. Boxes and bales were neatly ranged in her hold, and piles of elephants’ tusks were to be seen here and there. A large dark lanthorn threw a small circle of light around, but beyond this all was darkness. Ten barrels or kegs containing powder had been placed end on, near each other, forming two tiers. Several had been broken open, and the wood loosely replaced.
Walking carefully towards the pile, Hughes removed the head of a cask and verified the contents. There lay the mass of black glittering coarse grains, which were to send them to their doom. Seated on a heavy case near was the Portuguese noble, and at his feet in prayer, her large black eyes tearless and raised to heaven, kneeled Isabel, the dim light just showing the two, as Dom Maxara leaned over his daughter, his grey hair mingling with her raven tresses. Having replaced the heading of the cask, the soldier looked to his pistols, examining the caps and the lock, then replacing them, walked to Isabel’s side and knelt down.
All seemed still on deck, and the noise of the rushing water could be heard as the brig surged on through the seas. Half an hour passed, each minute seeming an age; for it was a fearful thing to be caged there in the darkness, knowing nothing of what was going on. Sometimes the father’s heavy sobs could not be restrained, as he leaned over his daughter; but Isabel’s eyes were dry, and she prayed fervently; the deep darkness in which the hold lay out of the feeble rays of the lanthorn, completing its resemblance to the tomb. A loud shout and a spattering fire were indistinctly heard, telling that the last moment was near; then the rushing sound of the wind as the brig heeled over before the strength of the squall, two shots, a long cheer, with the words, “Starboard! hard a-starboard!” shouted from the deck. Gasping Isabel in his arms, Hughes rose calmly and deliberately; not a word passed, all power of speech had left him. One kiss, one long last kiss, and he strode calmly and deliberately towards the fatal pile. Passing his hand over his eyes, he removed the heading and plunged his fingers into the black mass. A loud shriek from Isabel rang out as she rushed across the space which divided them, and threw herself into his arms. Rising, the old noble steadied himself by a pile of cases, his eyes seemed glaring out of their sockets as he strained them in the direction of the powder casks. Then came a terrible shock, the crash of splintering wood, the roar of the tempest, which had burst in fury over the doomed brig, and amidst all, one loud, despairing cry, as though the last united effort of a hundred voices. Pressing his lips to those of Isabel, his left arm encircling her—
“Mine, Isabel, in death if not in life,” he murmured, as he thrust the muzzle of the cocked pistol into the powder cask.
The hatchway opened, the light streamed down into the dreary dark hold, and he knew the pirates were upon them.
His arm tightened round Isabel’s waist, his eyes glared upwards, and his finger contracted on the trigger.
“Hold your hand, Hughes!” were the words which came to his ears, shouted in his friend’s voice. “Hold your hand! God, even at the last moment, has looked down upon us, and we are saved!”