"No; not the mate. You perhaps think he is your friend, but he is with me to the finish of this passage. The rest of the crew are with me. None of them wants a squealer somewhere ashore where he can harm us. They're all for sewing you in a sack and dropping you overboard."
Had the skipper snapped out his threats or otherwise acted in a bullying manner, Stirling would have felt less concern, but there was that in the icy tones and matter-of-fact statements which chilled red blood and caused a presentiment to reach and grip at the heart.
The two men stood in silence, then slowly turned and stared at each other. Marr's eyes were the first to drop. He raised them again with an effort. "I hate to finish you off," he said, without moving his lips, "but it's got to be done. I've posted a second sentry on the poop. Both have orders to shoot you down if you try to escape."
"Who is the person?" repeated Stirling, like a child with but one lesson.
Marr glided toward the door and stood in the opening.
"Who is the person?"
The little skipper leaned forward and hissed his words as he said: "You'll never see her! She wants me to spare you. I can't do it and live on this earth. You know too much!"
The door closed with a click. Marr was gone.
Stirling's brain grew numb, and as the hot blood rushed to his cheeks, he raised his hand and pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. He stared at the door with every muscle tense and eager. It would be possible to break through to the alleyway. There, however, he would meet with the Kanaka sentry, and the native was far too stolid to be moved by a sudden rush.
The ship rocked slightly with the movement of the inner waves which had risen over the early hours of the night. A murmur came to Stirling's ears, and he crossed the cabin, pressing his face against the brass rim of the porthole. A rocky wall, seamed here and there with dark fissures, reared a barrier, while the Pole Star swung at her anchor chain with her stern toward the opening to the gulf.