There was a sharp report, a wild cry, and a man who was standing upright in the bows of the first boat toppled over and fell into the sea with a splash of golden water.
The men ceased rowing.
“One,” cried Jarette sharply. “I can hit eleven more without reloading, for I never miss. There, go on, my lads. I don’t ask you to come back.”
A low murmuring sound arose, and we saw that instead of the boats going on forward they were returning into the shadow once again, as Jarette shouted aloud mockingly—
“One less to row. Why didn’t you pick him up?”
Again the low murmuring growl arose, and my mouth felt hot and dry, as with eager eyes I vainly searched the surface of the water, just where there was the plain demarcation between black shadow and the golden light.
“The wretch!” I thought. “Why don’t they rise against him?” But a fresh current of thought arose, and in a confused way I could not help thinking that it was fair retaliation. The man who had been shot and fell into the sea was evidently the one who had incited the two boats’ crews to leave Jarette to a horrible death. Was he not justified in what he did?
Then as with a strange contraction at my heart I realised the fact that Jarette’s victim had not risen to struggle on the surface of the water, I could not help feeling what power that man had over his companions, and what a leader he might have proved had he devoted himself to some good cause.
By this time the boats were right under the stern, and as I watched the lighted-up window one moment, the glistening, motionless water the next, I saw Jarette climb out, rope in hand, and glide down into the darkness.
“How horrible!” I thought, as the cold perspiration gathered on my face—“only a minute or two, and one of these men living, the next—dead.”