MUTINY
Half mad with the terror at this struggle, of which she could see nothing, faint and weak with the accumulation of her distresses, she hung more dead than alive to the companion-ladder, in one moment shutting her ears to the mad din above her, in another listening eagerly for the broken fragments of sound, fearful that the end of all things might come in one of those merciful moments in which she heard nothing. She thrust her hand into her breast and pulled forth the slender petronel which she had brought from the San Isidro. She looked at the shining barrel and saw to the flint and charge. There should be no hesitation. If monsieur—
But no! no! He was there yet. She heard his voice, strong, valiant, ringing like a clarion above the medley: “Aha, Cornbury!” it cried. “Point and edge, mon ami! … Your pupils are too apt, Monsieur le Maître d’Armes. … Ah, Craik, would you? … Voilà … touché, Duquesnoy … touché, mais … ce n’est rien! … Well struck, Cornbury! … Jacquard, help us, coquin! … To the rail …
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