As I uttered these words, a bit impatiently, there sounded a quick step on the low bank at our right. A sharp voice cleaved the darkness.
"Halt there! Halt that boat, or I put a ball through you."
"Sheer off lively, lads," I whispered. "Swing her head out, Chevalier."
There was a rush of feet down the steep embankment. Then a second voice questioned eagerly:
"What was it you saw, Sanchez?"
"Nothing, Señor; I heard voices out yonder. Listen! As the saints watch, 't is the dip of oars."
"Halt that boat, or we shoot!"
There followed a moment's painful pause. An oar in our bow slipped, making an awkward splash in the water. "Caramba! you will not? Take aim, men—fire."
A jagged flash of flame cleaved the night. It lit the steep bank, flinging a bright glare across the dark waters. In that instant I saw, my face set shoreward, a dozen black figures clustered in a bunch. One ball crashed into the planking close beside my hand, hurling a splinter of wood against my face. The boat gave a sudden tremor, and, with a quick, sharp cry of pain, the negro next me leaped into the air, and went plunging overboard. I flung forth a hand in vain effort to grapple his body, yet never touched it, and everything about became black once more.
"The poor devil's gone," muttered De Noyan. "The rest of you lay down to your oars, before they have time to load again."