CHAPTER XXV.
I RESCUE THE MATE.
Pale as marble, with his lower jaw relaxed and his eyes almost closed, motionless as if dead, but, nevertheless, still breathing slowly and heavily, poor Marc Hislop lay in his bed, the clothes and pillows of which were saturated with blood; for he seemed to be covered by wounds, and the crimson current had flowed over the piles of his favorite books, which were scattered upon the cabin floor, where they had been trod under foot by Antonio while overhauling the repositories of the unfortunate proprietor.
Shuddering, and in haste, we lifted him from the bed, muffled him in a blanket, and conveyed him, passive as a child, in our hands, from the cabin.
As we passed out, for a moment it seemed as if the ruffianly Spaniard repented of his temporary clemency; for when he saw the pale, bloody, and insensible form of the poor fellow trailed past, he made an ominous stride toward us, and threateningly clutched the haft of the Albacete knife in his sash. Then waving his hand, almost contemptuously, he said,—
"Basta—go, go—it matters little now, either to him or to me. Demonio! I always strike deep."
Alarm and pity endowed us with unusual strength, and we bore the speechless victim of Antonio up the steep stair to the deck, where our crew, with muttered oaths of vengeance, and expressions of commiseration, bore him into the forepart of the vessel. There a bed was made up for him on deck; for coolness, an awning was rigged over it, and we had his wounds examined.
We found a deep stab in the neck, most dangerously near the jugular vein; a second in the breast, a third between the bones of the right forearm, and a fourth in the left thigh; all had evidently been dealt through the bedclothes, and with a savage energy of purpose.
"The poor lad is dying for lack of a doctor," said old Tom, who knelt beside Hislop, handling his wounds with the tenderness of a woman; "and if the whole British navy hove in sight, we haven't a rag of bunting to shake out as a signal, since that rascally picaroon, the Cubano, has cast every color and signal overboard.
"Well, Tom, he shan't die this bout," said Ned Carlton, hopefully; "let us tie up his wounds as best we can, to belay the bleeding, and give him something as a reviver."