CHAPTER XI
THE PUNISHMENT
Floyd's finger went to the trigger of the rifle across his knees. He expected a sudden attack by the criminal on his accuser, but the man did nothing.
A murmur went up from the crowd, the sort of murmur that would have followed the exhibition of a conjuring trick, while Schumer, taking his man by the arm, led him apart from the rest and made him stand with his back to the port bulwarks.
"Is what I say true?" he asked, turning to Joe.
He had calculated on everything, and he knew that Joe the informer would never, never reveal to the others that his—Schumer's—magic gift of seeing the truth through men's skulls was a trick based on information.
For a moment Joe, between the devil and the deep sea, gazed wildly round him, then he bent his head in assent.
"So," said Schumer, then he turned to Floyd. "You are one of the judges of this man. I am the other, but I am president of this court, and I have the casting vote—pronounce your sentence."
"He deserves death," said Floyd; "but——"
"But what?"
"I would prefer to isolate him on some part of the island and hand him over to the first ship."