The stranger paused for a moment, amidst an awful silence.
“The lives of these two were preserved a little longer,” he added, in slow, measured tones.
“They sailed on. In a few days Clark and Stubbs began to look at one another. You will understand, gentlemen, that it was an awful thing for these men to cast at each other the same glances which they once cast on Wilson. Each one feared the other; each watched his chance, and each guarded against his companion.
“They could no longer row. The one sat in the bow, the other in the stern, glaring at one another. My friend Clark was a man of singular endurance. But why go into particulars? Enough; the boat drifted on, and at last only one was left.
“A ship was sailing from Australia, and the crew saw a boat drifting. A man was there. They stopped and picked him up. The boat was stained with blood. Tokens of what that blood was lay around. There were other things in the boat which chilled the blood of the sailors. They took Clark on board. He was mad at first, and raved in his delirium. They heard him tell of what he had done. During that voyage no one spoke to him. They touched at Cape Town, and put him ashore.
“My friend is yet alive and well. How do you like my story?”
The stranger sat down. A deep stillness followed, which was suddenly broken by something, half groan and half curse. It was Clark.
He lifted himself heavily from his chair, his face livid and his eyes bloodshot, and staggered out of the room.