“Yes, sir; but I couldn’t,” said the stowaway. “I wanted badly, and tried and tried, but I was much too weak. And that’s what made it seem like a dream; for the more I tried to creep out from under the sail, the more I lay still, as if something held me back. And all the time there was a puddle of melted pitch bubbling and running slowly toward me. My face burned and my hands were scorched, the wood was crackling, and the pitch rising up in blisters. And if the smoke had come my way I couldn’t have breathed; but it all went up with the flames and sparks. But the heat—oh, the heat!”
“And you couldn’t crawl out?”
“No, sir; couldn’t move—couldn’t raise a hand; and I lay there till I couldn’t bear it no longer, and tried to shriek out to the Malay chaps to come and put me out of my misery, for I wanted to die then; and I’d waited too long, for I couldn’t even make a sound.”
“And what happened next?” asked Mark, for the man had ceased speaking.
“Dunno, sir. One moment it was all fiery and scorching, the next I seemed to go to sleep like, and didn’t feel any more pain till I woke.”
“Till you woke?” said the major.
“Well, yes, sir. It was like waking up, to find it was all dark, and the wind blowing, and the rain coming down. Then the sea was roaring horribly; and after lying perished with cold there and helpless for a long time, I suppose I went to sleep again. Oh, dear me!”
The major and Mark exchanged glances, for the poor fellow put his hand to his head and stared about him for a few moments as if unconscious of their presence.
“But you got safe to land?” said Mark at last.
“Eh?”