Symons' state was as though the blow had robbed him of all power of resistance, of all faculty of surprise and generally of all the means by which a man may assert himself except bitter resentment. His head was aching, it seemed to him enormous, too heavy for his neck and as if full of hot smoke. He took a drink under Peyrol's fixed gaze and with uncertain movements put down the mug. He looked drowsy for a moment. Presently a little colour deepened his bronze; he hitched himself up on the locker and said in a strong voice:
"You played a damned dirty trick on me. Call yourself a man, walking on air behind a fellow's back and felling him like a bullock?"
Peyrol nodded calmly and sipped from his mug.
"If I had met you anywhere else but looking at my tartane I would have done nothing to you. I would have permitted you to go back to your boat. Where was your damned boat?"
"How can I tell you? I can't tell where I am. I've never been here before. How long have I been here?"
"Oh, about fourteen hours," said Peyrol.
"My head feels as if it would fall off if I moved," grumbled the other. . . . "You are a damned bungler, that's what you are."
"What for – bungler?"
"For not finishing me off at once."
He seized the mug and emptied it down his throat. Peyrol drank too, observing him all the time. He put the mug down with extreme gentleness and said slowly: