At that moment a hand was laid on Ayrton's shoulder.
"What are you doing here?" asked a tall man, in a harsh voice, who, standing in the shadow, quickly threw the light of a lantern on Ayrton's fact.
Ayrton drew back. In the rapid flash of the lantern, he had recognized his former accomplice, Bob Harvey, who could not have known him as he must have thought Ayrton long since dead.
"What are you doing here?" again said Bob Harvey, seizing Ayrton by the waistband.
Ayrton, without replying, wrenched himself from his grasp and attempted to rush into the magazine. A shot fired into the midst of the powder-casks, and all would be over.
"Help, lads!" shouted Bob Harvey.
At his shout two or three pirates awoke, jumped up, and rushing on Ayrton, endeavored to throw him down. He soon extricated himself from their grasp. He fired his revolver and two of the convicts fell. A blow from a knife made a gash in his shoulder.
Ayrton saw he could no longer hope to carry out his project. Bob Harvey had reclosed the door of the powder-magazine, there was a general awakening of the pirates. Ayrton must reserve himself to fight at the side of Cyrus Harding. There was nothing for him but flight!
But was flight still possible? Ayrton resolved to dare everything in order to rejoin his companions.
Four barrels of the revolver were still undischarged. Two were fired—one, aimed at Bob Harvey, did not wound him, or only slightly; and Ayrton, profiting by the momentary retreat of his adversaries, rushed toward the companion-ladder to gain the deck. Passing before the lantern, he smashed it with a blow from the butt of his revolver. A profound darkness ensued, which favored his flight. Two or three pirates, awakened by the noise, were descending the ladder at the same moment. A fifth shot from Ayrton laid one low, and the other drew back, not understanding what was going on. Ayrton was on deck in two bounds, and three seconds later, having discharged his last barrel in the face of a pirate who was about to seize him by the throat, he leapt over the bulwarks into the sea. He had not made six strokes before shots were splashing around him like hail.
