"Hurrah!" shouted Captain Truck; "that grist has purified the old bark! And now to see who is to own her! 'The thieves are out of the temple,' as my good father would have said."
The four boats were in a line abreast, the launch under one sail only. A good deal of confusion existed on the bank but the Arabs sought the cover of the bales and boxes, and opened a sharp though irregular fire. Three times, as they advanced, the second mate and that gallant-looking young seaman called Brooks discharged the gun, and at each discharge the Arabs were dislodged and driven to the raft. The cheers of the seamen became animated, though they still plied the oars.
"Steadily, men," said Captain Truck, "and prepare to board."
At this moment the launch grounded, though still twenty yards from the bank, the other boats passing her with loud cheers.
"We are all ready, sir," cried Brooks.
"Let 'em have it. Take in the sail, boys."
The gun was fired, and the tall young seaman sprang upon the grating and cheered. As he looked backward, with a smile of triumph, Paul saw his eyes roll. He leaped into the air, and fell at his length dead upon the water; for such is the passage of a man in battle, from one state of existence to another.
"Where do we hang?" asked Paul steadily; "forward or aft?"
It was forward, and deeper water lay ahead of them. The sail was set again, and the people were called aft. The boat tipped, and shot ahead towards the sands, like a courser released from a sudden pull.
All this time the others were not idle. Not a musket was fired from either boat until the whole three struck the bank, almost, at the same instant, though at as many different points. Then all leaped ashore, and threw in a fire so close, that the boxes served as much for a cover to the assailants as to the assailed. It was at this critical moment, when the seamen paused to load, that Paul, just clear of the bottom, with his own hand applying the loggerhead, swept the rear of the bank with a most opportune discharge.