“Then disbelieve it; but it is true. I tell you there is no escape, man. You may get away a few miles perhaps, but every step you take bristles with the threatenings of death. So be warned, and bear your fate patiently. Wait! Grow strong once more.”
“And then!” cried Humphrey, excitedly. “What then?”
“Ah, yes,” said the buccaneer, who assumed not to have heard his words, “you are still weak. That flush in your face is the flush of fever, and you are low and excited.”
“Dog! You are mocking me!” cried Humphrey, furiously, for he felt the truth of every word that had been said, and his impotence maddened him.
“Dog!” cried the buccaneer as furiously.
“Yes; wretched cut-throat—murderer,” cried Humphrey—“miserable wretch, whom I could strangle where you stand!”
The buccaneer turned of a sallow pallor, his brow knit, his eyes flashed, and his chest heaved, as he stood glaring at Humphrey; but the sudden storm of passion passed away, and with a smile of pity he said softly—
“You call names like a petulant boy. Come, I am not angry with you, let us go back to your room. The heat of this place is too much for you, and to-morrow you will be down with fever.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Humphrey, angrily.
“It is true,” said the buccaneer. “Come.”