The Hot Swamp | Page 6

another discharge could be made, the pirate vessel heeled over and sank, leaving her crew of miscreants struggling in the sea. Some of them--being, strange to say, unable to swim--were drowned. Others were killed in the water, while a few, taking their swords in their teeth, swam to the trader and made desperate attempts to climb on board. Of course they failed, and in a few minutes nothing remained of the pirate vessel to tell of the tragedy that had been enacted, except an oar or two and a few spars left floating on the sea.
"Would that all the sea-robbers in these parts could be as easily and thoroughly disposed of," remarked the captain, as he gave orders to re-hoist the sail. "Ho! Bladud, my worthy prince, come aft here. What detains you?"
But Bladud did not answer to the call. A stone from the enemy had fallen on his defenceless head and knocked him down insensible.
Four of the men now raised him up. As they did so, one of the men--the small seaman, Maikar--was found underneath him in a state of semi-consciousness. While they carried Bladud aft, the little sailor began to gasp and sneeze.
"Not killed, I see," remarked the mate, looking into his face with some anxiety.
"No, not quite," sighed Maikar, drawing a long breath, and raising himself on one elbow, with a slightly dazed look, "but I never was so nearly burst in all my life. If an ox had fallen on me he could not have squeezed me flatter. Do, two of you, squeeze me the other way, to open me out a little; there's no room in me left to breathe--scarcely room to think."
"Oh! your battles are not yet over, I see," said the mate, going off to the stern of the vessel, where he found Bladud just recovering consciousness and smiling at the remarks of the captain, who busied himself in stanching the wound, just over his frontal bone, from which blood was flowing freely.
"H'm! this comes of sheer recklessness. I told you to take off your helmet, but I did not tell you to keep it off. Man, you launched that javelin well!--better than I could have done it myself. Indeed, I doubt if my old grandfather could have done it with such telling effect-- straight through and through. I saw full a hand-breadth come out at the villain's back. What say you, mate? Little Maikar wounded?"
"No, not wounded, but nearly burst, as he says himself; and no wonder, for Bladud fell upon him."
"Didn't I tell you, mate," said the captain, looking up with a grin, "that nothing will kill little Maikar? Go to, man, you pretend to be a judge of men; yet you grumbled at me for engaging him as one of our crew. Do you feel better now, prince?"
"Ay, greatly better, thank you," replied Bladud, putting his hand gently on the bandages with which the captain had skilfully bound his head.
"That is well. I think, now, that food will do you service. What say you?"
"Nay, with your leave, I prefer sleep," said the prince, stretching himself out on the deck. "A little rest will suffice, for my head is noted for its thickness, and my brain for its solidity--at least so my good father was wont to say; and I've always had great respect for his opinion."
"Ah, save when it ran counter to your own," suggested Arkal; "and especially that time when you ran away from home and came out here in the long ship of my trading friend."
"I have regretted that many a time since then, and I am now returning home to offer submission."
"D'you think that he'll forgive you?"
"I am sure he will, for he is a kind man; and I know he loves me, though he has never said so."
"I should like to know that father of yours. I like your description of him--so stern of face, yet so kind of heart, and with such an unchangeable will when he sees what is right. But what is right, and what is wrong?"
"Ay--what is--who can tell? Some people believe that the gods make their will known to man through the Delphic Oracle."
"Boh!" exclaimed the captain with a look of supreme contempt.
The turn of thought silenced both speakers for a time; and when Captain Arkal turned to resume the conversation, he found that his friend was sound asleep.
CHAPTER THREE.
ON THE VOYAGE.
Weather has always been, and, we suppose, always will be, capricious. Its uncertainty of character--in the Levant, as in the Atlantic, in days of old as now, was always the same--smiling to-day; frowning to-morrow; playful as a lamb one day; raging like a lion the next.
After the rough handling experienced by the Penelope at the beginning of her voyage, rude Boreas kindly retired, and spicy breezes from Africa rippled the