“Yes; there!” I cried, for there was a heavy banging at a bulk-head, and some one shouted savagely to whoever cried for help to be quiet, and then a shot was fired, but not at us.
“The wretches!” I said.
“The wretch!” said Mr Denning. “That was Jarette’s voice, I’m sure; and he must have fired.”
“At some prisoner they have there below,” I said.
“Or at the wounded man,” cried Mr Preddle.
“It must be another wounded man then, for you heard the sound before you fired that shot.”
“Yes; and it makes me feel better satisfied, for the mutineers are such brutes—such savage brutes.”
“There!” I cried; “do you hear?” for once more the cry for help came so piteous, faint, and despairing that it seemed to go through me from head to heel in one long, continuous shudder.
“If it hadn’t been for what we heard just now,” said Mr Preddle just then, “I should have been ready to think it was something uncanny—something ghostly; but,” he added hastily, as Mr Denning turned a mocking face to him, “I don’t think so now.”
“It’s very horrid,” I said; “and the worst of it is that one can’t do anything. I wish we could send Mr Frewen to help the poor fellow, whoever it is.”