The man was covered with blood from a wound in the forehead. He was just raising himself on one hand as Gaspard came on the scene, and he looked dazed, like a person awakening from sleep. Next moment, he was scrambling on to his feet, literally kicked on to them by Sagesse, and making for the fo’cs’le, where he disappeared, followed by a shout of laughter from the men on deck.
“That will teach him,” said the Captain, flinging the belaying-pin in the weather scupper and wiping his brow with his coat-sleeve; then, as he turned, he saw Gaspard and started slightly. His face wore an expression of chill ferocity quite new to Gaspard; it was as though the devil in the man had taken possession of his features for a moment—a moment only, for the next he was laughing and himself again.
“Bah!” said he. “I believe the scamp made me lose my temper.” He stepped to the weather rail, shaded his eyes and looked over the sea. Dominica had vanished, painted out by distance; a star of light on the far horizon indicated the topsails of a ship hull down beyond the sea-line; nothing else was to be seen.
“We’ll see no more land till we touch the Virgins,” said Sagesse. “From there to your island, compère Gaspard, is, as near as I can make it, three hundred and sixty miles; from here to the Virgins is a matter of two hundred and ninety, so you can add the sums together, and you will know the length of your road.”
“What are we doing?”
“Eight knots.”
“When will we get there?”
“Bon Dieu, how you talk! We are in the hands of the wind.”
Gaspard filled his pipe and lit it, Sagesse, leaning against the bulwarks, lit a Martinique bout and with his hands in his pockets looked lazily over the sea.
“See here,” said Gaspard, after a moment’s silence. “Suppose we reach that place all right, and suppose we find stuff there—”