“Right ye are, lad,” said the captain in tones as hearty as his appetite; “an', blow me!—as the fog-horn says to the donkey-ingin—arter we snatches a wink o' sleep, d'ye mind me, we'll lay our heads together a bit an' detarmine on the best course to be steered.”
On the stone floor of the “fo'csle” the blacks were already sleeping the sleep of repletion; and, their meal finished, Don and the captain lost no time in following their example—for thirty-six hours of almost unremitting exertion and danger had told heavily upon their powers of endurance. Dead tired as they were, they gave little heed to the lascar beyond assuring themselves by a hasty glance that his bonds were secure. To all appearance he was wrapped in profound slumber.
The sun was at the zenith when they stretched themselves upon the flags of the “fo'csle”; slowly it burnt its way downward to the western horizon, and still they slept. Don was the first to stir. He raised himself upon his elbow with a yawn, rubbed his eyes, gazed about him in momentary bewilderment. Twilight had already crept out of the ravine and invaded the ghostly, fire-scathed ruins. This was the first-thing he noticed. Then the recollection of the events of the past day and night rushed upon him, and he turned abruptly, with a sudden vague sense of dread, to the spot where the lascar lay.
Lay? No; that place was empty!
He could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. Had the fellow somehow managed to shift his position, and roll out of sight behind one of the numerous blocks of stone that lay about? Or had he——
With a cry of alarm he threw himself upon an object that lay where the lascar had lain. It was the leathern belt with which he had bound the fellow's arms. The tongue of the buckle was broken. He recollected now, and almost cursed his folly for not recollecting before, that the buckle had long been weak. Too late! The lascar had escaped!
Dashing the traitorous belt upon the stones, he hurried to where the old sailor lay asleep, with Bosin curled up by his side, and shook him roughly by the shoulder. He was in no gentle mood just then.
“Captain! Captain! Wake up! The lascars off!”
No response. No movement. Only the monkey awoke suddenly and fell to whimpering.
The captain lay at full length upon his back, his bronzed hands clasped upon his broad chest, his blue sailor's cap drawn well over his eyes. Something in the pose of the figure at his feet, in its stillness—something, too, in the plaintive half-human wail the monkey uttered at the moment—struck a sudden chill to Don's heart. He dropped upon his knees, lifted the cap, peered into the upturned face. It was distorted, purple. He started back with a fearful cry: