“I don’t know,” I said in a low, husky voice. “Perhaps not.”
“Let’s hope not; and we must rub some feeling into them first.”
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“Don’t you know, old fellow? Guess.”
I shook my head.
“Well, it is hard work; but look here: they didn’t search us last night, only tied us hand and foot. We’ve got our revolvers inside our shirts. Let’s have one shot each at Moriarty before we die.”
I looked at him wonderingly, for the vivid dream of the night came back, and my brother’s words seemed to be thrilling hotly in my ear once more.
Denham looked at me curiously.
“Well,” he said, “wouldn’t you like to shoot the wretch?”
“No,” I said; “not now. If we are to die I don’t want to try to kill any more.”