“I repeat, you know not the men;” with which, as though to deride the other then and there with proof of his absolute reliance, Vytal whistled the short note shriller and louder than before. Even as it died away there came a deep oath from the stern and a sound as of metal clanking on the deck. In another second there was a pistol-shot, then a desperate silence. “Let us hasten,” cried Marlowe, “to their assistance!”
“Nay, let us rather go and question the prisoner.”
This expression of confidence was fully repaid by the sight that met their eyes. For there on the deck, near the helm, flat on his back, lay the bulky pilot, so bound with a rope winding from head to foot that he could not move so much as a finger in remonstrance. As Vytal and Marlowe arrived on the scene, Hugh Rouse, smiling broadly, held a light over the prone figure as though to exhibit his handiwork. “A ceroon of rubbish,” he said. “Shall we cast him into the sea?”
“Nay, let him lie here.”
Vytal turned to the pilot’s substitute at the helm, who had come thither at the request of Roger Prat. “Loyal?” he queried, taking the lanthorn from Rouse and holding it high, so that the rays fell athwart the new steersman’s face.
“Ay, loyal; the fly-boat’s mate, sir, at your service.”
“What proof?”
“None, save this,” and leaning forward he whispered the name “Raleigh” in Vytal’s ear.
“Your own name?”