The boat, still carrying way, glided under the Frolic's stern, a thrust with one of the smack's sweeps sending her clear.
This time the would-be boarders had had more than enough. Groaning and yelling, they managed to row back to the Marie-Celeste.
Ten minutes passed without any further communication between the Frolic and the Marie-Celeste. Then a voice, plaintively apologetic, came from the poop of the Belgian drifter:—
"Anglais! Ve gif twenty-five pours' if you pull in ze anchor."
"Make it fifty while you'm about it," replied Old Negus. "'Twon't make no difference. Here we bide."
Nevertheless, the skipper of the Frolic began to feel a bit anxious, for during the encounter the Marie-Celeste's head had fallen off and now lay with the land broad on her port beam. It was quite possible that if she went ahead again she might be able to steam beyond the all-important "three-mile limit."
"Ver' well," continued the Belgian, who had now observed the altered state of affairs. "Ve back to Ostende go. On ze voyage we cut an' buoy ze trawl; zen we sink you."
Which was exactly what Old Negus feared. In the darkness the helpless Frolic could be sunk without a trace, since even if she slipped her cable, she would be at the mercy of the powerful steam drifter.
"It's no use your tryin' that," he shouted brazenly. "We've telled the coastguards, an' there's a gunboat on her way already. Wish she wur," he added under his breath.
The next instant the drifter and the Frolic were bathed in a dazzling white light.