Chapter Twelve.
Prisoners.
“What’s the matter?” cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness.
Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep.
As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse.
He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners.
“Hold the lanthorn here,” he said sharply. “Now let’s have a look at you.”
He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly.
“All right, my lad,” he said to Don; “you will not die this time. Now you.”