“Not of death!”
“Of what, then?”
“Of myself!” she answered, turning to glance at their pursuer again.
“Why of yourself?” But ere she could reply he had leapt and dragged her beneath him to the deck as the guns roared again, followed by a clamour of shouts and cries forward, a confusion of dismayed shouting and a great flapping of rent canvas as the True Believer, swinging up into the wind, lay a fair target for the Preventive brig’s gunnery. A shot furrowed her deck abaft the mainmast, another crashed through her bulwarks aft and, struck by a flying splinter, Sir Hector staggered and brought up against the lee-rail grasping at torn and bloody sleeve.
“Dinna fash ye’sel’, John lad!” he panted, as Sir John leapt to him. “Toots, man, let be! ’Tis nae mair than a wee scratch—though painfu’ forbye. But wha’s come tae a’ the lads? Sharkie!” he roared; “Sharkie man, ye’ll no’ strike tae the de’ils yonder?”
“Not me, y’r honour,” answered Mr. Nye, signalling to the steersman; “leastways, not while I’ve a sail as will draw——”
“An’ will ye let ’em shoot ye tae pieces an’ gi’e ’em nothing in return? O man, hae ye no arteelery?”
“Aye, sir, a tidy piece under the tarpaulin yonder. But Lord love ’ee, sir, to fire agin a King’s ship is treason, piracy, murder, Execution Dock and damnation——”
“What o’ that, Sharkie? Wull ye look at me arrm?”
“I’ll whip my neckerchief round it, y’r honour——”