We pulled on in silence.
“He is looking for you now, somewhere along shore; he left us, just below the point, to find you; you had better pull back and bring him off.”
“All a trick,” said Morton; “don’t waste any breath with them;” and we bent to the oars with new energy.
“The young scamps mean to give the alarm,” I could hear Luerson mutter with an oath, as he surveyed, for a moment, the interval between the two boats, and then the distance to the point.
“There’s no use of mincing matters, my lads,” he cried, standing up in the stem; “we have knocked the first officer on the head, and served some of those who didn’t approve of the proceeding in the same way; and now we are going to take the ship.”
“We know it, and intend to prevent you,” cried Morton, panting with the violence of his exertions.
“Unship your oars till we pass you, and you shall not be hurt,” pursued Luerson in the same breath; “pull another stroke at them, and I will serve you like your friend, Frazer, and he lies at the spring with his throat slit!”
The ruffian’s design, in this savage threat, was doubtless to terrify us into submission; or, at least, so to appal and agitate us, as to make our exertions more confused and feeble. In this last calculation he may have been partially correct, for the threat was fearful, and the danger imminent; the harsh, deep tones of his voice, with the ferocious determination of his manner, sent a thrill of horror to every heart. More than this, he could not effect; there was not a craven spirit among our number.
“Steadily!” said Arthur, in a low, collected tone; “less than five minutes will bring us within hail of the ship.”
But the minutes seemed hours, amid such tremendous exertions, and such intense anxiety. The sweat streamed from the faces of the rowers; they gasped and panted for breath; the swollen veins stood out on their foreheads.