CHAPTER IX.
A SWIM TO THE NAMUR All was black, hopeless; with head buried in my hands I sat on a thwart, dazed and stupefied, seemingly even unable to think clearly.
Before me, pleading, expressive of agonized despair, arose the sweet face of Dorothy Fairfax.

Nothing else counted with me at that moment but her safety--the protecting her from the touch of that blood-stained brute.

Yet how, and through what means, could such rescue be accomplished?
No doubt by this time all was over--the dead body of Sanchez discovered, the projected attack on the house carried out, the two old men left behind, either dead or severely wounded, and the girl borne off a helpless prisoner, together with the treasure of fifty thousand pounds.

Even if I knew where the drifting boat had taken me, which way to turn to once again attain the wharf, the probability remained that I should arrive altogether too late to be of slightest service--the dastardly deed had already been accomplished.
Ay, but this I knew; there was only one place to which the villains might flee with their booty--the _Namur of Rotterdam_.

Only on those decks, and well at sea, would they be safe, or able to enjoy their spoils.