With a loud shriek, which aroused every one on the raft, Isabel rushed forward. Seizing her with his iron grasp by the hair, the murderer’s knife once more gleamed in the starlight, when a straightforward blow from Morris the carpenter struck him full between the eyes, knocking him overboard; while shriek after shriek from Isabel rang out on the air.
The men had now formed, and came on with their knives gleaming in the starlight, and a savage determination on their faces.
“Lay down your arms, my lads,” shouted Weber; “your plot is known, and we are armed.”
For a second the crew seemed disposed to obey the voice whose tones of command had so often rang in their ears.
“Come on, my lads,” shouted a burly sailor; “follow Jack Smith, and we’ll soon have the gold.”
A wild shout rang out, a pistol shot, and the speaker, struck right on the bridge of the nose by a ball from the captain’s pistol, gave a fearful scream as he spun round in his intense agony; dropping the knife, he uttered a volley of hideous imprecations, then came an appalling yell, and he fell dead.
The men were startled, two of their leaders were gone, while opposed to them, and fully armed, stood the captain and his party.
Isabel lay senseless on the planking of the cabin, and the seamen held a hurried consultation together.
Meanwhile, in the sea, a fierce struggle had been going on. His left arm pierced by the knife, which had sought his heart, but in the darkness missed its aim, Hughes had risen to the surface after his first plunge, the body of his antagonist Gough falling on him as he did so, both instantly grappling.
The soldier’s arm was powerless, as with a savage shout, and deep guttural oath, Gough pinned his enemy by the throat; dashing back his head against the rough planking of the raft, while with his clenched fist he dealt him blow after blow.