"Not for me the filth. Time enough for medicine when one is ill, and not much good it does then if we may judge from the results on this unhappy vessel."
It was necessary for Baptiste's purpose to get this man out of the way before anything could be done. First he thought of asking the Spaniards to despatch him with their knives; but this might create a disturbance and awake the sleepers; so the cautious Provençal waited until a safer plan should suggest itself.
An hour of the watch had passed, and it was now nine o'clock. The sky became overcast, and a drizzling rain began to fall.
"We shall have wind soon," said Léon. "Would it not be well to wake Mr. Duval?"
"Not for a few minutes," replied Baptiste. "Come, now; this damp is the very thing to bring on fever. We ought to take something to keep the enemy out. If you don't like medicine, what say you to a drop of genuine old cognac? I have some in my cabin."
"That is more in my line," said the Breton, smacking his lips; "a fig for your doctor's stuff, I say."
"Then follow me, but step quietly. Mr. Duval's cabin is next to mine. If he finds you drinking brandy aft, though it is only for medicinal purposes, you can guess what a row there will be."
Baptiste led the way to his cabin, and produced a bottle of brandy. He helped the man freely, but he did not attempt to drug the drink with the opiate, for its taste was too unmistakable.
The brandy was strong, and even the Breton's hard head soon succumbed to it. He began to exhibit signs of intoxication, and was chattering in a disconnected fashion, when Baptiste suddenly rose from his seat and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "Hush!" he whispered; "hush, you idiot! I hear Mr. Duval moving in his cabin; your noise has roused him. He will catch you if you don't hold your tongue. Remain here while I get him out of the way, under some pretext or other. Then I will return for you."