He awoke with a start at last, for a hand had touched his shoulder.
To his horror, he saw the form of the tiger-eyed Dungloo standing by his bedside, with a glittering dagger in his hand, the hand quivering, as if with eagerness to plunge the fearful weapon into the captain’s throat or heart.
It was a terrible moment, but Antonio Garcia never moved, nor once lost his presence of mind.
“Dungloo!” he said, “you here!”
“Dungloo is here.”
Both men talked in the Hindustani language.
“Antonio Garcia, attempt but to move, attempt but to shout, and the next breath you breathe will be your last.”
“But what does it mean, Dungloo? Mutiny or murder?”
“It means both, if it be pleasing in your sight.”
“Dungloo, you are a fool or a madman. What is it you require, and why would you slay me?”