"That must be the Prins," Peter Gross exclaimed. "I hope to Heaven Enckel doesn't know we're aboard."
Another whistle of a passing shell and the thunder of an explosion. The two were almost simultaneous, the shell could not have fallen far from the launch's bow, both knew.
"They may sink us!" Paddy cried in a half-breath.
"Better drowning than torture." The curt reply was cut short by another shell. The explosion was more distant.
"They're losing the range." Paddy exclaimed in a low voice. In a flash it came to him why Peter Gross had said: "I hope Enckel doesn't know we're here."
Peter Gross stared, white, and silent into the blackness, waiting for the next shell. It was long in coming, and fell astern. A derisive shout rose from the pirates.
"The Prins is falling behind," Paddy cried despairingly.
"Ay, the proa is too fast for her," the resident assented in a scarcely audible voice. Tears were coursing down his cheeks, tears for the lad that he had brought here to suffer unnameable tortures, for Peter Gross did not underestimate the fiendish ingenuity of Ah Sing and his crew. He felt grateful for the wall of darkness between them.
"Well, there's more than one way to crawl out of a rain-barrel," Paddy observed with unimpaired cheerfulness.
Peter Gross felt that he should speak and tell Rouse what they had to expect, but the words choked in his throat. Blissful ignorance and a natural buoyant optimism sustained the lad, it would be cruel to take them away, the resident thought. He groaned again.