"Look at my hand!" said Hawkshaw, striving to gain time for thought—to rally his scattered wits for the coming dénouement—for an explanation, or a bold defiance.
"Well, what has happened?"
"It is almost bleeding—bitten."
"By what—by whom?" asked everyone at once
"A madman."
"Mad!" was exclaimed in wild tones by all.
"Yes," said Hawkshaw, through his clenched teeth, and with a glare in his eye, that seemed somewhat akin to insanity; "one of those fellows between-decks—one of those wretches we took off the raft (a curse upon them all!) has bitten me."
"But which of them?" asked Heriot, who had now completely attired himself.
"Oh, I don't know which, and I care not which," replied the wretched Hawkshaw, as he rubbed and blew his breath upon his aching digits.
"And he actually bit you?"