Suddenly there was a creaking noise, as if some one moved on the bed. Crouch was utterly silent. Then some one coughed. The cough was followed by a groan. De Costa sat up in bed. Crouch was just able to see him.
The little half-caste, resting his elbows on his knees, took his head between his hands, and rocked from side to side. He talked aloud in Portuguese. Crouch knew enough of that language to understand.
"Oh, my head!" he groaned. "My head! My head!" He was silent for no longer than a minute; then he went on: "Will I never be quit of this accursed country! The fever is in my bones, my blood, my brain!"
He turned over on his side, and, stretching out an arm, laid hold upon a match-box. They were wooden matches, and they rattled in the box.
Then he struck a light and lit a candle, which was glued by its own grease to a saucer. When he had done that he looked up, and down the barrel of Captain Crouch's revolver.
[CHAPTER VII--THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN]
Before de Costa had time to cry out--which he had certainly intended to do--Crouch's hand had closed upon his mouth, and he was held in a grip of iron.
"Keep still!" said Crouch, in a quick whisper. "Struggle, and you die."
The man was terrified. He was racked by fever, nerve-shattered and weak. At the best he was a coward. But now he was in no state of health to offer resistance to any man; and in the candle-light Crouch, with his single eye and his great chin, looked too ferocious to describe.
For all that the little sea-captain's voice was quiet, and even soothing.