In his heart, Crouch stigmatized such talk as this as high-falutin' nonsense. Still, he thought it unwise to hatch a quarrel with the man, and answered with a kind of grunt.
"I suppose you're right," said he.
"And what of our poor invalid?" said Cæsar, turning to de Costa.
Side by side, these two men, who were already sworn enemies in secret, bent over the prostrate figure of the half-caste. De Costa lay with one arm hanging listlessly over the side of the bed. His eyelids were half-closed, and underneath the whites of his eyes could be seen. When a man sleeps like that, he is in a bad way. The sands of life are running down.
"He's asleep," said Crouch. "That's all he wants. The fever has subsided. He'll be much better to-morrow. Let us leave him."
Together they went out. The little sea-captain walked back to his hut, and threw himself down upon his blankets. As for Cæsar, he remained standing in the moonlight, with his long fingers playing in his beard.
For some minutes he remained quite motionless. The silence of the night was still disturbed by the strange sounds that came from out of the forest. The man seemed plunged in thought. Presently a soft, moist nose was thrust into the palm of his hand, and looking down, he beheld his great dog, which, unable to sleep by reason of the heat, had followed her master into the moonlight.
"Gyp," said he, in a soft voice--"Gyp, old friend, how are we to get rid of these accursed Englishmen?"
The dog looked up, and licked her master's hand.
"Come, Gyp," said Cæsar; "come and think it out."