“Now, then!” cried Arthur, at length, unshipping his oar, and springing to his feet, “one united effort to attract their attention—all together—now, then!” and we sent up a cry that echoed wildly across the water, and startled the idlers congregated at the bows, who came running to the side of the vessel nearest us.

“We have got their attention; now hail them,” said Arthur, turning to Browne, who had a deep powerful voice; “tell them not to let the long-boat board them.”

Browne put his hands to his mouth, and in tones that could have been distinctly heard twice the distance, shouted— “Look-out for the long-boat—don’t let them board you—the men have killed the first officer, and want to take the ship!” From the stir and confusion that followed, it was clear that the warning was understood.

But the mutineers were now scarcely twenty yards from the vessel, towards which they were ploughing their way with unabated speed. The next moment they were under her bows; just as their oars flew into the air, we could hear a deep voice from the deck, sternly ordering them to “keep off,” and I thought that I could distinguish Captain Erskine standing near the bowsprit.

The mutineers gave no heed to the order; several of them sprang into the chains, and Luerson among the rest. A fierce, though unequal struggle, at once commenced. The captain, armed with a weapon which he wielded with both hands, and which I took to be a capstan-bar, struck right and left among the boarders as they attempted to gain the deck, and one, at least of them, fell back with a heavy plunge into the water. But the captain seemed to be almost unsupported; and the mutineers had nearly all reached the deck, and were pressing upon him.

“Oh, but this is a cruel sight!” said Browne, turning away with a shudder. “Comrades, can we do nothing more?”

Morton, who had been groping beneath the sail in the bottom of the boat now dragged forth the cutlasses which Spot had insisted on placing there when we went ashore.

“Here are arms!” he exclaimed, “we are not such boys, but that we can take a part in what is going on—let us pull to the ship!”

“What say you!” cried Arthur, glancing inquiringly from one to another; “we can’t, perhaps, do much, but shall we sit here and see Mr Erskine murdered, without trying to help him!”

“Friends, let us to the ship!” cried Browne, with deep emotion, “I am ready.”

“And I!” gasped Max, pale with excitement, “we can but be killed.”

Can we hope to turn the scale of this unequal strife? shall we do more than arrive at the scene of conflict in time to experience the vengeance of the victorious mutineers?—such were the thoughts that flew hurriedly through my mind. I was entirely unaccustomed to scenes of violence and bloodshed, and my head swam, and my heart sickened, as I gazed at the confused conflict raging on the vessel’s deck, and heard the shouts and cries of the combatants. Yet I felt an inward recoil against the baseness of sitting an idle spectator of such a struggle. A glance at the lion-hearted Erskine still maintaining the unequal fight, was an appeal to every noble and generous feeling: it nerved me for the attempt, and though I trembled as I grasped an oar, it was with excitement and eagerness, not with fear.

The yawl had hardly received the first impulse in the direction of the ship, when the report of fire-arms was heard.

“Merciful heavens!” cried Morton, “the captain is down! that fiend Luerson has shot him!”

The figure which I had taken for that of Mr Erskine, was no longer to be distinguished among the combatants, some person was now dragged to the side of the ship towards us, and thrown overboard; he sunk after a feeble struggle; a triumphant shout followed, and then two men were seen running up the rigging.

“There goes poor Spot up to the foretop,” said Max, pointing to one of the figures in the rigging; “he can only gain time at the best but it can’t be that they’ll kill him in cold blood.”

“Luerson is just the man to do it,” answered Morton; “the faithful fellow has stood by the captain, and that will seal his fate—look! it is as I said,” and I could see some one pointing, what was doubtless Mr Frazer’s fowling-piece, at the figure in the foretop. A parley seemed to follow; as the result of which, the fugitive came down and surrendered himself. The struggle now appeared to be over, and quiet was once more restored.

So rapidly had these events passed, and so stunning was their effect, that it was some moments before we could collect our thoughts, or fully realise our situation; and we sat, silent and bewildered, gazing toward the ship.

Max was the first to break silence; “And now, what’s to be done?” he said, “as to going aboard, that is of course out of the question: the ship is no longer our home.”

“I don’t know what we can do,” said Morton, “except to pull ashore, and stand the chance of being taken off by some vessel, before we starve.”

“Here is something better,” cried Max eagerly, pointing out to sea; and, looking in the direction indicated, we saw a large ship, with all her sails set, steering directly for us, or so nearly so, as to make it apparent that if she held on her present course, she must pass very near to us. Had we not been entirely engrossed by what was taking place immediately around us, we could not have failed to have seen her sooner, as she must have been in sight a considerable time.

“They have already seen her on board,” said Morton, “and that accounts for their great hurry in getting up anchor; they don’t feel like being neighbourly just now, with strange vessels.”

In fact, there was every indication on board of our own ship, of haste, and eagerness to be gone. While some of the men were at the capstan, getting up the anchor, others were busy in the rigging, and sail after sail was rapidly spread to the breeze, so that by the time the anchor was at the bows, the ship began to move slowly through the water.

“They don’t seem to consider us of much account anyway,” said Max, “they are going without so much as saying good-bye.”

“They may know more of the stranger than we do,” said Arthur, “they have glasses on board; if she should be an American man-of-war, their hurry is easily explained.”

“I can’t help believing that they see or suspect more, in regard to her, than appears to us,” said Morton, “or they would not fail to make an attempt to recover the yawl.”

“It is rapidly getting dark,” said Arthur, “and I think we had better put up the sail, and steer for the stranger.”

“Right,” said Morton, “for she may possibly tack before she sees us.”

Morton and myself proceeded to step the mast, and rig the sail; meantime, Arthur got Browne’s coat off, and examined and bandaged the wound on his arm, which had been bleeding all the while profusely; he pronounced it to be but a trifling hurt. A breeze from the south-east had sprung up at sunset, and we now had a free wind to fill our sail, as we steered directly out to sea to meet the stranger, which was still at too great a distance to make it probable that we had been seen by her people.

It was with a feeling of anxiety and uneasiness, that I saw the faint twilight fading away, with the suddenness usual in those latitudes, and the darkness gathering rapidly round us. Already the east was wrapped in gloom, and only a faint streak of light along the western horizon marked the spot where the sun had so recently disappeared.

“How suddenly the night has come upon us,” said Arthur, who had been peering through the dusk toward the approaching vessel, in anxious silence; “O, for twenty minutes more of daylight! I fear that she is about