They ran for some little time, and then Ethan looked back and saw no signs of pursuit.

“Take it easy,” said he to Longsword. “There is no one after us.”

“There will be in a few minutes,” panted the Irishman, distrustfully. “They’ll lose no time, sure, when they find which way we’ve gone.”

However, they slackened their pace, but still headed toward the sea.

“We must get a boat,” said Ethan. “It’s our only hope. To be seen ashore means arrest; and this part of the coast is too thickly populated for hiding.”

“You are right,” answered Longsword. “We’ll have to get afloat; it’s very little chance we’ll have to do anything but starve; but if we can get across the channel into Ireland, I’ll go bail that we’ll be safe enough. There is many a colleen or gossoon that would hide us away, if it was only because we are enemies of the Saxon.”

A few moments later Ethan remarked, “We are near the wharf where we landed; see that tall signal mast; I remember passing it.”

“Sure enough,” said Longsword; “and here is the wharf.”

It was a stout wooden pier built out into the cove for some distance; almost directly opposite it, about a musket shot away, were the lights of the schooner that had brought them to the town. They stood at the head of the pier for some moments; then Ethan said, suddenly,

“I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“Danvers and his men must have landed at this pier; and if so we’ll be sure to find their boat at the end of it.”

“Bravo!” breathed Longsword. “Sure, ye have a clear head on your shoulders, Master Ethan, so ye have.”

“Shall we try for it?”

“We shall, more power to us!”

They walked slowly down the pier; as they neared the end Longsword caught Ethan by the arm.

“Sh-h!” warned he.

“What is it?” asked the boy.

“There is some one beyant there.”

Ethan strained his eyes through the darkness, and at last he made out the shadowy forms of several men standing at the end of the pier.

“A guard over the boat,” he whispered to the Irish dragoon.

“That Danvers is a suspicious bla’guard,” grumbled Longsword. “Sure here we have sorra the weapon—not even a lump of a stick—and we have the luck to come across a couple of able bodied lads wid cutlasses and pistols, I have no doubt.”

“Those we knocked down a few moments ago had the same,” said Ethan evenly. “And we had no trouble in disposing of them.”

“Right! Ah, but it’s yourself that’s your father’s son, me lad.”

They crept softly down the pier; at one side was a huge fisherman’s net hung upon a frame to dry; they placed this between themselves and the seamen from the schooner so that they might not detect any movement in the shadow. As they drew nearer they could hear the sailors’ voices.

“A quiet night, mate,” said one.

“Yes,” answered the other, “quiet enough. But I’d rather spend it in my hammock than watching the lights on the water.”

“I wonder what it is that this government fellow Danvers is up to.”

“I don’t know. I don’t even think the skipper knows.”

“He must be well thought of at the admiralty, shipmate, to have a schooner placed at his service like this.”

“Ay! You’re right there. But it’s government work he’s on; those two prisoners he took on St. Mary’s Isle seem mighty important to him.”

“Did you hear where he took ’em? Up to old Meg Rawlins’. She’s the widow of old Rawlins the smuggler; Ben Kaye was in the party that went there; he said the boy and the Irishman were locked in cells in the underground vault where Rawlins used to hide his ‘run’ goods.”

“I wonder why he didn’t take ’em to a reg’lar government prison?”

“Private reasons, I guess. These secret service agents are queer fish, mate.”

The men continued to talk in the same strain for some little time. Ethan and Longsword crouched behind the hanging net and listened.

“I say,” remarked one, at last, “suppose we take a walk up the pier and see if they are coming. My eyes are closing for want of sleep.”

“But who’ll watch the boat?”

“Oh, let it take care of itself. There is no one awake here in this sleepy old town. And then who wants a few old government cutlasses and pistols?”

“Come along, then, mate.”

The two seamen started up the pier; and as they disappeared in the shadows, Ethan and the Irish soldier crept from behind the net.

“Cutlasses and pistols in the boat,” whispered Longsword with a joyous chuckle.

“It couldn’t be better,” said Ethan. “In with you, now; and we’ll push off.”

They clambered into the jolly-boat that was tied to a ring in the wharf log. Ethan cast off, placed the blade of an oar against one of the piles, and with a strong shove sent the craft well clear of the pier. But they had scarcely placed the oars into the rowlocks and settled themselves for the pull out of the cove when they heard running feet coming down the pier and the sound of angry voices.

“It’s Danvers!” cried Ethan. “Pull, Shamus!”

They bent to their oars manfully and the jolly-boat shot away from the wharf, just as a shadowy group appeared through the darkness.

“The boat!” cried the voice of Danvers. “It’s gone!”

“There she is, sir,” said a seaman, pointing, “and dowse my tops if your prisoners ain’t in her.”

With an inarticulate cry of rage Danvers whipped out a pistol.

“Stop!” he shouted.

“Pull hard,” said Ethan coolly to Longsword.

“Hard it is,” came the voice of the ex-dragoon, as his powerful arms and shoulders labored at the oars.

Seeing that no attention was paid to his command, Danvers raised his pistol and fired. The flash and report lit and wakened the night; then the ping-g-g of the bullet came to the ears of the two in the boat as it went past them. A series of quick, snapping shots followed as the seamen also discharged their pieces. When the steady splash of the oars in the water told the British emissary that the shots had been ineffective, he shouted in a voice that could be plainly heard by the two rowers:

“Boats! After them!”

“There are no boats, sir, except those of the fishermen around on the other side of the inlet.”

“Lead the way then and show me where they are. We’ll make the schooner, and we’ll soon overhaul these Yankees.”

Ethan signaled Longsword silently to stop pulling, and the dragoon obeyed. Running feet could be heard thudding dully upon the planking of the pier.

“Did you hear that?” asked the boy.

“I did, faith,” answered Longsword. “And he speaks the truth. Let them get out to the schooner and it’s all up with us. There’s a good breeze blowing and these clouds will not hang before the moon long. So wid the wind in their sails and floods of light to see by, we can’t escape them.”

Ethan felt with his foot for the cutlasses and pistols that lay in the stern.

“Could we prevent them gaining the schooner?” he asked.

“All you want is encouragement,” declared Longsword, “and you’d face an army. No, Master Ethan, we couldn’t stop them. Ye know that I’m never anyways backward in a fight; but, faith, this would be mere folly, so it would.”

There was a silence, during which they resumed pulling. At length Ethan dropped his oars and whirled about, facing the dragoon.

“I have it!” he cried.

“Ye have what?”

“The solution. We’ll take the schooner!”

“Boy, dear, are ye mad?” gasped the astonished Irishman.

“Not a bit of it,” said the lad excitedly. “Listen. There were only about ten men in the vessel all told. There were four with Danvers and two upon the pier. That makes six, and leaves only four on the schooner.”

Longsword drew in a long, deep breath and then said:

“Good! But let’s look to the weapons before we begin.”

They examined the pistols and found there were four of them; they were ready charged and primed; the cutlasses were of the short-bladed “hanger” type of the British navy.

“Sure, what makes people turn out such weeney little blades?” said Longsword. “Faith, Master Ethan, these are not a man’s size at all, at all. I like a sword a good three feet long, and wid some weight in it, faix.”

“I suppose you’ll have to do with what we can find here, old fire eater,” smiled Ethan. “These cutlasses are not so bad for close work. They are short, but remember the Romans conquered the world with a short sword.”

“If they’d had long ones they’d done the job in half the time,” said Longsword.

“Ready?” asked the boy.

“Ready,” answered the dragoon.

They headed for the schooner and began to pull swiftly, but softly. On shore all was silent, and darkness still hung pall-like over the water, though the heavy clouds were visibly thinning before the wind, and here and there a silver spot glimmered among them.

The lights of the schooner became more and more distinct; and at length they were under her bow, clinging to the chains, and listening. The low murmur of voices came from the after part of the vessel, but forward all was still.

“It’s going to be easy work,” said Ethan.

They made fast the jolly-boat to the chains, then thrust the loaded pistols into their belts. Ethan, with a naked cutlass between his teeth, went up the side like a cat; and in a moment the tall Irishman stood beside him on the schooner’s deck.

“Ahoy,” suddenly called a startled voice from the after deck. “Who’s that for’ard?”

“Don’t answer,” breathed Ethan.

They maintained silence; then came the voice once more.

“Is that you, Mr. Blake?”

No answer.

“I don’t see anything,” said a second voice, after a pause.

“Well, I do. Some one came over the side just now; it looked like two, but I can see only one, now.”

“Better go below, and sing out to the skipper.”

“Not till I’m sure about what or who it is.”

Footsteps advanced; from behind the cabin top two forms came into view.

“Now,” breathed Ethan Carlyle.

“I’m right here, wid ye,” answered Longsword in the same low tone.

The sailors of the schooner had advanced no more than a dozen steps when the two desperate boarders bounded upon them, and the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against the forehead of each.

“Not a word,” said Longsword, harshly.

“Who are you?” asked one of the startled men.

“Never mind that,” said Ethan. “Shamus, tie them up.”

The grim dragoon stuck his pistol in his belt: with the keen edge of his cutlass he cut some ropes, and in a few moments both men were securely lashed to the mainmast, back to back.

“A piece of sail cloth would do for a gag,” said Ethan.

“And here is just the thing,” said Longsword as he picked up a topsail, apparently used as a tarpaulin. He cut some broad strips from this; and despite the protests of the seamen, these were bound tightly over their mouths.

“Keep a watch over them,” said Ethan to his companion, after all was finished.

“Where are you going?” asked the other.

“Below. I think I’ll treat the commander of the schooner to a small surprise.”

Longsword made no comment, though his face, had Ethan been able to see it, took on an anxious expression. The youthful American advanced, pistol and hanger in hand, to the companionway. A glimmer attracted his attention, and looking down through a small open skylight he saw two men at the cabin table, engaged in an earnest conversation.

The capture of the watch had been accomplished with almost no noise, so the two below were unconscious of what had taken place.

Softly Ethan descended the companion ladder and reached the cabin door. He paused a moment listening, and heard one of the men say,

“I tell you, Blake, it is growing desperate. British shipping is in the greatest danger. That rascal Paul Jones is a menace to the entire coast. The Drake is out after him, and I hope she comes up with him soon.”

“You may be correct,” said the second voice, “but my opinion, Captain Spencer, is that there is not a Yankee nearer to us this minute than the coast of France.”

ETHAN CARLYLE STOOD BEFORE THEM

The door opened at that exact moment, and the stalwart form of Ethan Carlyle stood before them, his pistol pointed at their heads and his hanger ready in his hand.

“You are wrong in that, sir,” remarked the lad coolly; “for here is one at your side.”

“What does this mean?” exclaimed Captain Spencer, leaping up.

“It means that you are my prisoners,” observed Ethan, in an even tone. “Sit down and don’t become excited. It will do no good.”

“Draw, Blake,” roared the schooner’s captain, as he flashed out his blade. But he had scarcely lifted it when the sword of the young American swept downward like a flash and knocked it from his hand; then a blow from the flat of the weapon sent him back against the cabin wall.

“The next effort at resistance,” said Ethan, “will meet with a shot from this,” and he presented the pistol once more.

“What do you want, boy?” demanded Blake, as he stood hesitating, his hand upon his sword.

“I want you to take your belt and tie the captain’s hands behind him.”

“I’ll not do it,” cried Blake.

“I’ll give you just one minute to make up your mind,” said Ethan.

The mate of the British schooner looked into the boy’s set, determined face: nothing but resolve were in the quiet eyes; and so the man reluctantly did as he was commanded. Then Ethan called to the dragoon and Longsword came down into the cabin with a couple of lengths of rope; in a short time the two officers were safely bound, and the cabin ransacked for arms; all the muskets, pistols and other things of the sort were taken upon deck; then the cabin was locked with the glowering officers within it.

“Now then, look alive,” cried Ethan as they reached the deck once more.

Across the waters of the cove stole a faint thread of light; the wind had continued to blow steadily, and the clouds had almost drifted off the face of the moon.

“Hark!” said Longsword, lifting a silencing hand.

From the direction of the shore came the steady “creak, creak” of oars; across the trail of moonlight a large boat was seen to dart, coming toward the schooner.

“It’s Danvers and the rest of the men,” cried Ethan.

“They’ll be here before we can get up the anchor,” said Longsword.

“Then we’ll impress help,” said Ethan briefly. Stepping to the sides of the men lashed to the mast he cut their bonds with his hanger.

“Now then, my lads,” said he, “lend a hand at the capstan.”

For a moment the men hesitated; they had caught sight of the advancing boat, and knew that it meant help; but the Irish dragoon’s pistol poked itself into their faces without any parleying, and in another instant the capstan was clanking merrily, and the heavy anchor was being drawn from the bottom of the cove. Then the seamen lent a reluctant hand at hoisting the mainsail and the jibs. As the wheel whirled under the skilful hands of Ethan Carlyle, the hanging canvas filled and the foot of the schooner broke the first ripple on her way seaward.

The boat was now near at hand, and the voice of Danvers came booming across the water.

“Schooner, ahoy.”

“Ahoy, the boat,” was Ethan’s answer as he leaned his weight upon the wheel and watched the press of wind in the sheets with satisfaction.

“Heave to,” shouted Danvers. “What do you mean by this, Spencer?”

Another sail went up on the schooner and filled; the handy little craft responded to this increased speed instantly and went flowing ahead, with a wake of spume behind her.

The moon had just slipped from behind a cloud and lit up the cove with the brilliancy of day. Danvers was standing up in the stern of the boat. With a cry of rage he saw his vessel filling rapidly away; he saw Ethan at the wheel waving a mocking hand to him; he saw the Irish dragoon, with a brace of pistols, hovering over the two English seamen in the waist. Then the moon hid her face once more; the creaking of blocks came to his ears, and the wash of the waters as the flying vessel dashed it from her bow. Danvers shook his fist in the direction of the sound and his voice reached the ears of Ethan through the darkness.

“You have the best of it this time. But he laughs best who laughs last, my lad!”