There was a lamp burning in the cabin. Duval, roused by the din, was sitting up in his bed, half awake, still confused by the heavy dose of opium that had been administered to him. Just as the men violently swung the door open, Léon again raised the shout of "A mutiny! A mutiny! Mr. Duval, defend yourself!"
The Norman heard that terrible cry, and all his senses returned to him in a moment.
"Grapple with him at once," cried Baptiste.
The two Spaniards precipitated themselves upon him; but though not a big man, he was a strong and wiry one. Leaping from his bunk he thrust the men aside, and seizing the only weapon within his reach, an iron water-can, he swung it round and brought it down on Baptiste's skull.
"Oh, you treacherous wretch, take that!" he cried.
The Provençal's evil career would have been terminated there and then had it not been for El Toro, who seized Duval's arm and broke the force of the blow. As it was, the sharp edge of the can inflicted an ugly wound, and Baptiste staggered back, the blood pouring all over his face.
"Kill him!" he hissed, sick and faint with pain and fear, but mad with rage.
El Toro needed no second bidding. He thrust his long knife quickly between the unfortunate man's ribs. Duval uttered one groan, and fell to the ground dead.
"That was deftly done," said the Basque, wiping the blade. "Ho! my little Baptiste. How dost thou feel with that cracked pate of thine?"