The ship had
run upon a low-lying bar that splits the channel about a quarter
of a mile from the sea.
For a moment she hung there, and then, swinging round until her
bow pointed toward the shore, she broke adrift once more.
At the same instant, just as Jane Clayton was congratulating herself
that the ship was once more free, there fell upon her ears from a
point up the river about where the Kincaid had been anchored the
rattle of musketry and a woman's scream--shrill, piercing, fear-laden.
The sailors heard the shots with certain conviction that they
announced the coming of their employer, and as they had no relish
for the plan that would consign them to the deck of a drifting
derelict, they whispered together a hurried plan to overcome the
young woman and hail Rokoff and their companions to their rescue.
It seemed that fate would play into their hands, for with the reports
of the guns Jane Clayton's attention had been distracted from her
unwilling assistants, and instead of keeping one eye upon them as
she had intended doing, she ran to the bow of the Kincaid to peer
through the darkness toward the source of the disturbance upon the
river's bosom.
Seeing that she was off her guard, the two sailors crept stealthily
upon her from behind.
The scraping upon the deck of the shoes of one of them startled
the girl to a sudden appreciation of her danger, but the warning
had come too late.
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