A shudder of repulsion passed from one wretched frame to the other.
Petit alone did not shudder. He appeared calm—eager, but calm.
“To-morrow,” he said, “it will be too late!”
“To-morrow,” muttered the three, “we will be dead; what matters.”
“To-morrow,” said Jean Petit, forming his meaning more precisely, “one will be dead. The others will live.”
There was a long, long silence.
The boat rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell.
It was fully a quarter of an hour before the convict spoke again.
Scanning closely the faces of his companions, he asked: