Mark turned to where Mr Russell lay, in the same calm state of stupor, and the sun lit up his face.
“Don’t look like dying, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “Strikes me, sir, as he’s getting all the best of it.”
Mark turned upon him angrily, and Tom Fillot gave him a deprecating look.
“Beg pardon, sir. It’s my tongue, not me. It will talk.”
“I suppose the others are imprisoned in the forecastle,” said Mark, ignoring his remark.
“Dessay, sir. That’s why they were getting the chain out of the cask.”
“I hope they are not much hurt.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose they are, sir. We Naughtylasses are all about as hard a lot as the captain could pick out.”
“Ay, ay,” said Dick Bannock, “they’re knocked about, same as we.”
Just then there reached them a savage yell; the report of a pistol, and then another; and it was evident from the sounds that a fierce conflict was going on, exciting the men so that they made another desperate effort to get out; but the cabin entrance was too strong, and Mark ran to the window.