"Oh, Whiterock, will you not save me?"
It was the best plea the boy could have made, for since those words of his to the Captain, and his terrible distress about his poor father, Whiterock had felt something like compunction for what he had done.
"The matter lies in your own hands, Cyril," he said, not unkindly. "You, and only you, can save your life. Accept the Captain's offer—it is a generous one."
"But I can't," said Cyril. "Oh, Whiterock, I can't!"
"Well, come back with me inside."
"One moment," cried poor Cyril. "What will they do to me?"
"You'll hear that soon enough," muttered Whiterock, leading him inside the huge shanty.
"Come here," called the Captain loudly, "and hear our decision."
Cyril stood tremblingly before him.
"It is," cried the man, "that if you do not change your mind by morning and consent to become one of our band, we shall tie you to a bunk and leave you here imprisoned in this camp, with only the snakes for your companions."