“Curse Lieutenant Mazzard!” cried Humphrey. “Where is the captain!”
No answer.
“Is this so-called lieutenant master here!”
“Tries to be,” grumbled Bart.
“The captain is away, then?”
“Orders are, not to answer questions,” said Bart, abruptly; and he left the chamber.
Humphrey was better. The whims and caprices of a sick man were giving way to the return of health, and with this he began to chafe angrily.
He laughed bitterly and seated himself by the window to gaze out at the dim arcade of forest, and wait till such time as he felt disposed to go out, and then have a good wander about the ruins, and perhaps go down that path where he had been arrested by the appearance of the captain.
He had no hope of encountering any of his crew, for, from what he could gather, fully half the survivors, sick of the prisoner’s life, had joined the buccaneer crew, while the rest had been taken to some place farther along the coast—where, he could not gather from Dinny, who had been letting his tongue run and then suddenly stopped short. But all the same he clung to the hope that in the captain’s absence he might discover something which would help him in his efforts to escape and come back, if not as commander, at all events as guide to an expedition that should root out this hornets’-nest.
Mid-day arrived, and he was looking forward to the coming of Dinny with his meal, an important matter to a man with nothing to do, and only his bitter thoughts for companions. The Irishman lightened his weary hours too, and every time he came the captive felt some little hope of winning him over to help him to escape.