The position in which Clif found himself was so startlingly unexpected and so full of peril that for a brief instant it almost unnerved him.
Had he suspected the possibility of the boat being manned by Spaniards, he would have given up the thought as soon as he recognized it as one belonging to the flagship. It seemed natural that a boat should be sent to look for them after their protracted absence, and it was a decided shock to find that he had fallen, alone and unarmed, in the way of his enemies.
But his surprise affected him but for an instant. He did not propose to be shot down if he could help it.
The report of the pistol that met Clif's gaze rang out upon the air, but the bullet did not reach its intended mark.
Like a flash Clif had released his hold upon the boat, and dropped beneath the water, just in the nick of time.
The Spaniard peered over the side of the boat in the darkness, expecting to see Clif's form appear on the surface, and hoping to see his life's blood staining the waters, a testimony to his marksmanship.
How could he have failed to send that bullet crashing through the American's brain? thought he.
But nothing of the sort happened. Clif not only was not wounded, but was chipper as a lark. When he disappeared, he dove under the boat and rose again on the opposite side. The Spaniard would look in vain in that spot for his intended victim.
But the Spaniard in the bow discovered Clif's head as it appeared for an instant above the water. With an imprecation of wrath he called his companion's attention to the spot. But one of them was armed, it seemed.
The other rushed to that side, but when he looked in the direction indicated, revolver in hand, Clif had again disappeared.