the time that Brimblecombe and Yeo shouted from the stern-gallery below that the quarter-deck was won, few on either side but had their shrewd scratch to show.
"Yield, Señor!" shouted Amyas to the commander, who had been fighting like a lion, back to back with the captain of mariners.
"Never! You have bound me, and insulted me! Your blood or mine must wipe out the stain!"
And he rushed on Amyas. There was a few moments' heavy fence between them; and then Amyas cut right at his head. But as he raised his arm, the Spaniard's blade slipped along his ribs, and snapped against the point of his shoulder-blade. An inch more to the left, and it would have been through his heart. The blow fell, nevertheless, and the commandant fell with it, stunned by the flat of the sword, but not wounded; for Amyas's hand had turned, as he winced from his wound. But the sea-captain, seeing Amyas stagger, sprang at him, and, seizing him by the wrist, ere he could raise his sword again, shortened his weapon to run him through. Amyas made a grasp at his wrist in return, but, between his faintness and the darkness, missed it.—Another moment, and all would have been over!
A bright blade flashed close past Amyas's ear; the sea-captain's grasp loosened, and he dropped a corpse; while over him, like an angry lioness above her prey, stood Ayacanora, her long hair floating in the wind, her dagger raised aloft, as she looked round, challenging all and every one to approach.
"Are you hurt?" panted she.
"A scratch, child.—What do you do here? Go back, go back."
Ayacanora slipped back like a scolded child, and vanished in the darkness.
The battle was over. The Spaniards, seeing their commanders fall, laid down their arms, and cried for quarter. It was given; the poor fellows were tied together, two and two, and seated in a row on the deck; the commandant, sorely bruised, yielded himself perforce; and the galleon was taken.
Amyas hurried forward to get the sails set. As he went down the poop-ladder, there was some one sitting on the lowest step.
"Who is here—wounded?"
"I am not wounded," said a woman's voice, low, and stifled with sobs.
It was Ayacanora. She rose, and let him pass. He saw that her face was bright with tears; but he hurried on, nevertheless.
"Perhaps I did speak a little hastily to her, considering she saved my life; but what a brimstone it is! Mary Ambree in a a dark skin! Now then, lads! Get the Santa Fé gold up out of the canoes, and then we will put her head to the north-east, and away for Old England. Mr. Brimblecombe! don't say that Eastward-ho don't brmg luck this time."
It was impossible, till morning dawned, either to get matters
