“Come on, ye murderous thieves!” cried the dauntless veteran, who stood foremost in his own band, conspicuous by the locks of gray that floated around his naked head, “well do ye know that heaven is with the right!”

The grim freebooters in his front recoiled and opened; then came a sheet of flame, from the side of the “Dolphin,” through an empty port of her adversary bearing in its centre a hundred deadly missiles.  The sword of Bignall was flourished furiously and wildly above his head, and his voice was still heard crying, till the sounds rattled in his throat,—­

“Come on, ye knaves! come on!—­Harry—­Harry Ark!  O God!—­Hurrah!”

He fell like a log, and died the unwitting possessor of that very commission for which he had toiled throughout a life of hardship and danger.  Until now Wilder had made good his quarter of the deck though pressed by a band as fierce and daring as his own; but, at this fearful crisis in the combat, a voice was heard in the melee, that thrilled on all his nerves, and seemed even to carry its fearful influence over the minds of his men.

“Make way there, make way!” it said, in tones clear, deep, and breathing with authority, “make way, and follow; no hand but mine shall lower that vaunting flag!”

“Stand to your faith, my men!” shouted Wilder in reply.  Shouts, oaths, imprecations, and groans formed a fearful accompaniment of the rude encounter, which was, however, far too violent to continue long.  Wilder saw, with agony, that numbers and impetuosity were sweeping his supporters from around him.  Again and again he called them to the succour with his voice, or stimulated them to daring by his example.

Friend after friend fell at his feet, until he was driven to the utmost extremity of the deck.  Here he again rallied a little band, against which several furious charges were made, in vain.

“Ha!” exclaimed a voice he well knew; “death to all traitors!  Spit the spy, as you would a dog!  Charge through them, my bullies; a halbert to the hero who shall reach his heart!”

“Avast, ye lubber!” returned the stern tones of the staunch Richard.  “Here are a white man and a nigger at your service, if you’ve need of a spit.”

“Two more of the gang!” continued the General aiming a blow that threatened to immolate the topman as he spoke.

A dark half-naked form was interposed to receive the descending blade, which fell on the staff of a half-pike and severed it as though it had been a reed.  Nothing daunted by the defenceless state in which he found himself, Scipio made his way to the front of Wilder, where, with a body divested to the waist of every garment, and empty handed, he fought with his brawny arms, like one who despised the cuts, thrusts and assaults, of which his athletic frame immediately became the helpless subject.

“Give it to ’em, right and left, Guinea,” cried Fid:  “here is one who will come in as a backer, so soon as he has stopped the grog of the marine.”