"You are not hurt, Benet?" were the first words she whispered.
"No, Lady Biddy," says I; "but you have one enemy the less."
She made no reply, but rested her hand for support upon the bed, as if the thought of this death sickened her.
I slipped my right hand behind me lest she should see the black patch which, even in that faint light, I perceived the negro's blood had stained my hand with. Then, to turn her thoughts, I asked her if any notice had been taken by the watch of the noise made by my falling down the hatchway.
"No," says she; and then after a few minutes' silence, "Oh, Benet, I wish it were all over."
"Courage, Lady Biddy, courage," says I. "You are not used to give way in the face of danger."
"No," says she; "'tis when the danger is past my courage sinks."
But the danger was not passed, as was presently made evident. For in that space of silence which succeeded her last words—a silence which was scarce broken by the water through which the ship was cutting—a groan from below reached my ears, and the next instant a creaking of the steps leading up to the trap, with something like the low, vengeful growling of a tiger.
I sprang to the corner to make sure that I had secured the trap, for I felt sure that the negro was coming up to take his revenge upon us.