"Take them into the forecastle for to-night. Secure the two sick men as well," was the reply.
"Just Heaven, what a cruel thing a British conscience is!" exclaimed Baptiste, with a loud, scornful laugh. He was intoxicated with the successful issue of his scheme. "I, the man without scruples, would have mercifully killed these men outright. You, the man of conscience, shrink from doing so, but are willing to shut them up in the pestilential hole yonder, so that an agonising fever may kill them for you. Do you really flatter yourself, oh, self-deceiver, that you in this way absolve your soul from the guilt?"
"Silence!" cried Carew angrily. The man's words had hit the mark. Some such vain idea had indeed crossed the warped mind. Arguments of a like sophistical nature were always now vaguely occurring to him, and he took care not to reason them out, being conscious of the fallacy of them, yet cherishing them. A form of moral insanity this, and not an uncommon one.
El Chico, who was standing by, heard Carew's last words. "Do you want us to die of the fever too, captain?" he grumbled. "Who's going to stand sentry over the prisoners in that poisonous forecastle?"
Carew saw the force of this objection.
"Then put them in a row along the bulwark and lash each one to a ring-bolt," he said.
"That is a better plan," remarked Baptiste; "we can thus keep our eyes on them without leaving the deck. El Chico, you keep watch for two hours, while the rest of us sleep. We require rest after our exciting day's work; and as for me, that cut over the head makes me feel rather queer."
"See, here comes the wind," cried Carew.
The clouds towards the east had opened out, revealing a patch of starry sky, and a light breeze had sprung up.