And while the oars swung and the chains clashed and the cries redoubled their volume, the three keepers moved imperturbably up and down the gangway, flicking their whips to left and right, and drawing blood with every second stroke.

At length, when Tristram's head was reeling and the backs of the bench-full just in front were melting before his eyes and swimming in a blood-red haze, the order was yelled to easy.

The men dropped their faces forward on the oars, and rested them there while they panted and coughed, catching the breath again into their heaving bodies.

Then one or two began to laugh and utter some poor drolleries; presently the sound spread, and within three minutes the whole pit was full of chatter and uproar.
They seemed to forget their miseries even as they wiped the blood off their shoulders.
And now, while the cold wind began to creep underneath the awning and dry the sweat around their loins, Tristram had time to take stock of his companions, and even to ask a question or two of the slave that had spoken to him.

They were all stalwart fellows, the Commodore having the pick of all the _forcats_ drafted to his port, and exercising it with some care, because he prided himself on the speed of his vessel.