Ceasing to strike out the swimmer allowed himself to sink till the water rose to his lips, trusting that in the darkness his soot-smeared face would escape notice. As he did so some salt water entered his mouth, and, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, he gave vent to a cough.
"Hey! What was that?" demanded the French officer, and bidding the rowers desist he drew a lantern from beneath the stern bench and held it aloft.
"There. On your bow!" shouted the Frenchman. "A rat-eating rebel! Smite him over the head with your oar, Gaston."
The bowman stood up and aimed a vicious blow at Dymock's head, but the swimmer dived.
"Back your oars, rascals!" exclaimed the officer. "He must come up, then, ma foi, I'll wing him."
Drawing a pistol the Frenchman cocked the weapon and held it at the ready, while the rowers backed, following the swirl that denoted the course of the hunted man.
At length Dymock rose; only to find that his dive had proved of little avail. The boat was within an oar's length of him.
The officer snapped his pistol, but the flint refused to draw fire. With an oath he threw the weapon into the boat, and shouted to his men to run down the fugitive.
Dymock dared not risk another dive. His breath would not last sufficiently for him to gain any material advantage. He realised that he must act—and that quickly.
Swish. The bowman's oar struck the water barely two inches from the swimmer's shoulder. Ere the man could recover himself Dymock seized the blade, and placing his feet against the side of the boat, tugged lustily at the oar. The next instant his antagonist was struggling in the water, but weighted down by his thigh-boots, the man sank ere he could regain the boat.