“No. Nothing about that. But I know Hal’s packing some things now to make what they call a getaway. And—”
“And you’re not going to stop him?” exclaimed the girl, clutching his arm. “You’re not?”
“Shhh, my dear!” warned Filhiol. “We mustn’t wake the captain in there! Stop Hal? No, no! Nothing better could happen than to have him go before he does murder in this town.”
“He almost did murder this afternoon! He ran into three of McLaughlin’s men down at Hadlock’s Cove, and they twitted him about apologizing to McLaughlin. Then—”
“Say no more,” interrupted the doctor, raising his hand. “I understand.”
“Yes, doctor, but the news has spread, and the rest of the crew have sworn vengeance on Hal. They’ll surely kill him, doctor!”
“God grant they may!” the doctor thought, but what he said was:
“The quicker he goes, then, the better.”
“But isn’t there any way to bring him to reason, doctor? To make him like other men? To save him?”
“I see none,” Filhiol answered. He pondered a moment while the rain-drums rolled their tattoos on the roof of the porch and the sea thundered. “The curse, the real curse on that boy, is his unbridled temper, his gorilla-like strength. His strength has unsettled his judgment and his will. Ordinary men rely on their brains, and have to be decent. Hal, with those battering-ram fists, thinks he can smash down everything, and win, like one of Nietzsche’s supermen. If something could drain him of strength, and weaken and humble him, it might be the salvation of him yet.”