“It is of no use to waste words with you, my man,” he said. “I was ready to trust you and treat you as a British sailor, but you have broken faith. You cannot understand my words, but your own heart tells you that you have done wrong. There—I cannot punish you for being neglectful and ignorant, but in future you will be only one of the blacks.”
He turned his back upon the great fellow, who shivered at the lad’s words, and then, with a cry of despair, ran after his officer, flung himself down on the deck at his feet, and held up the cutlass he had drawn when he went on duty and had held ever since. He held it up by the blade, and made signs for Mark to take it and use it upon him.
“There is no need to punish you,” said Mark, quietly; “you feel your position quite bitterly enough. There, get up, man, and go to your duty. I ought to have known better than to trust you. Get up.”
As the black still grovelled at his feet, Mark stooped down and caught hold of his collar, giving it a drag, and the man rose to his knees.
“No,” said Mark, making signs; “sheathe your cutlass. I am not a West-coast tyrant, ready to take off your head. Get them away, Bannock, I want to think of what is to be done next.”
The sailor stepped forward, and clapped the big black on the shoulder.
“Come along, my hearty. You’ve got off wonderfully easy. No cat for you to-day. It’s all right.”
“All righ’?” cried the black, eagerly.
“Yes.”
“No all righ’,” he continued, mournfully, as he shook his head and rose to follow the sailor; but he turned directly and ran to Mark’s side, sank on one knee, and kissed his hand. Then he rose, and hurried off with his fellow sleeper.