"And is it you, Bob? Oh, blessed saints, but I'm that glad. I thought you were— Is that Peter?"
"Ja," said Peter.
"And what will ye have on your shoulder? A dead man? Is it him I shot a few minutes back?"
"'Tis Captain Murray," I answered, making way for Peter.
"Oh, Queen of Heaven! Sure, we're in bad case."
"We are," I assented grimly as I followed Peter inside. "Have you a light?"
She took a lanthorn from under a cloth, and its scanty rays played hide-and-seek with the shadows over the rude log walls and the piles of rum barrels and kegs of hard-tack and the clumsy stack of treasure.
"Where are Ben Gunn and Scipio?" I asked.
"They made off after I shot him that lies outside. They were mightily feared of what Captain Flint would be doing to them did he find them here, and one of his men dead at the door."
Peter laid my great-uncle gently upon the earthen floor—there was no softer bed—and began cutting away the garments from around the hilt of the knife, which was still fixed in his right side.