Changing his position, Harrington put out his foot and drawing the other boat to him, began to press on the gunnel.
“You’re not goin’ to capsize that boat, too,” gasped the man.
Harrington did not answer, but bore down heavily, and the boat filled and toppled down with a splash. As it went over, the man gave a smothered yell, frantically dashed both hands on his tarpaulin, and with a sudden desperate effort tore himself free from the gripe which held him, scrambled up the ladder, and with loud shouts ran madly for the house.
Harrington nearly fell from his hold into the water, and in the endeavor to save himself, his pistol dropped from the lappel and was gone. Recovering, he cut the rope which secured the capsized boat to the pier, and in his haste thoughtlessly flinging away the knife, sprang up the ladder.
“Quick Antony,” he cried, “fly, for they’ll be after us.”
They rushed together up the pier, and fled past the house, just as the entire gang poured from the outbuilding. At that moment the vivid lightning blazed broad, and the wild yells and the sudden furious thudding of feet behind them told them that they were seen.
“Run, Antony, run for your life!” cried Harrington.
Spurred by his fear of being retaken, the fugitive ran by Harrington’s side as fast as he did. Had he fallen behind, the young man would instantly have caught him up, and ran with him, but he did not. Together they reached the steep sloping edge of the island and plunged furiously down. But to the sudden horror of Harrington, Antony, impelled by some strange confusion of fear, instead of heading down with him to the left toward the boat, swerved in his descent obliquely away to the right and sped at a frantic pace in that direction toward the water. It was a moment before Harrington could stop in his headlong velocity, wheel, and rush after him, and in that moment Antony got the start of him at least thirty yards, and ran like a race-horse. Flying after him, Harrington heard the feet of the pursuers tearing down the slope, and close behind. Suddenly down went Antony on the large pebbles close to the edge of the water. The next instant Harrington reached him, turned, and through the darkness saw his enemies coming fast, and not more than forty yards distant. With one rapid glance to the right, he looked through the thick darkness for the boat, saw it not, and knew that the battle was now with him, and with him alone.
“Lie still, Antony; don’t move,” he cried, stepping close to the prone body and standing with his back to the sea, like a lion at bay.
They were coming. Had it been, not on those loose stones, or in the night, but in broad daylight or on a fair field, not those seven, no, nor twice their number, could have stood unvanquished before that agile vigor, that dauntless spirit of assault, that roused and terrible magnetic front of war. For this was one of those rare men whose presence in a battle is worth a thousand brands, and who carry death in their arm, and victory in their eye. This was the Cid Rodrigo Diaz, at the wind of whose sword-sweep ranks fled and fell. This was Roland, storm of dread with the pine-branch in his grasp among the cloven swarms at Ronceval. This was Tancred, arm of fate among a thousand foes at Dosylæum. This was Gaston when with forty knights at his back he drove before him one hundred thousand weaponed Jacqueric. All that ever Paladin did in blazing powess was in him to do. But there, on the brink of the salt flood, unarmed, in the murk night, on the rough ground, with seven knived hands to conquer—oh, hopeless hour of doom and ruin!—oh, forlorn death-grapple of the brave!