Up and down the gangway ran the boatswain's mates, cutting fiercely with
their whips to urge the slaves to the very utmost effort. The vessel
gathered speed. The looming headland slipped by. The mouth of the cove
appeared to widen as they approached it. Beyond spread the dark steely
mirror of the dead-calm sea.
Rosamund could scarcely breathe in the intensity of her suspense. She
set a hand upon the arm of Sakr-el-Bahr.
"Shall we elude them, after all?" she asked in a trembling whisper.
"I pray that we may not," he answered, muttering. "But this is the
handiwork I feared. Look!" he added sharply, and pointed.
They had shot clear to the headland. They were out of the cove, and
suddenly they had a view of the dark bulk of the galleon, studded with a
score of points of light, riding a cable's length away on their larboard
quarter.
"Faster!" cried the voice of Asad. "Row for your lives, you infidel
swine! Lay me your whips upon these hides of theirs! Bend me these dogs
to their oars, and they'll never overtake us now."
Whips sang and thudded below them in the waist, to be answered by more
than one groan from the tormented panting slaves, who already were
spending every ounce of strength in this cruel effort to elude their own
chance of salvation and release. Faster beat the tomtom marking the
desperate time, and faster in response to it came the creak and dip of
oars and the panting, stertorous breathing of the rowers.
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