“Suppose,” he thought, after a while—“suppose he was to be gone next time she came. Well, he might have escaped, and after a time she’d be at rest. It would be so easy, and it would be for her. And yet he’s so brave and so handsome, such a man for her! Better see her happy and kill myself. Not that I need!” he said, bitterly; “for she said she’d do that if aught happened to him.”
“It’s hard work,” he muttered, after a while, “seeing the woman you love care for some one else, and him lying there, and as good us asking you to put him out of the way.”
Bart’s head sank lower as he crouched there, struggling with the great temptation of his life, till at last he slowly rose, and, shading the lantern within his breast, stepped cautiously toward the curtain which draped the door. Stretching out his hand, he was in the act of drawing it softly aside when there was a firm clutch at his shoulder, and a low voice whispered in his ear—
“What are you going to do?”
Bart drew back, let fall the certain, and faced his leader.
“Nothing!” he said, abruptly.
“You villain!” whispered the buccaneer. “I read murder in your eye!”
“I’m tired of it,” growled Bart. “I give it up. I know what I am. I hopes for nothing; but when I see you go mad for one who hates you, and who will bring ruin on us all, as well as make you unhappy, it makes me mad too. He’s an enemy, and I could kill anybody as gives you pain!”
“As I could, and would, slay you if you hurt a hair of the head of the man I love!”
“The man you love!” muttered Bart, bitterly. “Time back it was the other Captain Armstrong. Now it’s him. Anybody but a poor fellow like me!”