But the Lieutenant smiled satirically.
“To the waves with the corpse! To the sharks with the man from St. Malo!” cried he.
And all of this the senseless seaman heard—for—he was in a cataleptic fit, where he could hear, but could not move. The Portuguese Lieutenant and he were bitter enemies.
“Oh, I tell you, Boys, the fellow’s dead!” again cried the Portuguese. “Over with him!”
So saying, he seized the inert body with his hands; dragged it to the ship’s side; and started to lift it to the rail.
Conscious of all that went on around him, the paralyzed Surcouf realized that, unless he could make some sign, he had only a few seconds to live. So, with a tremendous effort—he made a movement of his limbs. It was noticed.
“Voilà! Voilà!” cried a French sailor. “He ees alife. No! No! You cannot kill heem!”
Running forward, he grabbed the prostrate form of Robert Surcouf, pulled it back upon the deck, and—as the Portuguese Lieutenant went off cursing—he rubbed the cold hands of the half-senseless man. In a moment the supposed corpse had opened its eyes.
“Ah!” he whispered. “I had a close call. A thousand thanks to all!”
In five more moments he could stand upon the deck, and—believe me—he did not forget the Portuguese Lieutenant!