“Now here is midsummer frenzy!” he protested, yet there was a tenderness in the very impatience of his accents. He stroked the golden head that lay against his shoulder. “How shall that help me?” he asked her. “Would you embitter my last hour—rob death of all its glory? Nay, Rosamund, you can serve me better far by living. Return to England, and publish there the truth of what you have learnt. Be yours the task of clearing my honour of this stain upon it, proclaiming the truth of what drove me to the infamy of becoming a renegade and a corsair.” He started from her. “Hark! What’s that?”
From without had come a sudden cry, “Afoot! To arms! To arms! Holâ! Balâk! Balâk!”
“It is the hour,” he said, and turning from her suddenly sprang to the entrance and plucked aside the curtain.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE SURRENDER
Up the gangway between the lines of slumbering slaves came a quick patter of feet. Ali, who since sunset had been replacing Larocque on the heights, sprang suddenly upon the poop still shouting.
“Captain! Captain! My lord! Afoot! Up! or we are taken!”
Throughout the vessel’s length came the rustle and stir of waking men. A voice clamoured somewhere on the forecastle. Then the flap of the awning was suddenly whisked aside and Asad himself appeared with Marzak at his elbow.
From the starboard side as suddenly came Biskaine and Othmani, and from the waist Vigitello, Jasper—that latest renegade—and a group of alarmed corsairs.
“What now?” quoth the Basha.
Ali delivered his message breathlessly. “The galleon has weighed anchor. She is moving out of the bay.”