"Are you sure of what you say, doctor?" asked Captain Phillips, earnestly.
"Quite, sir; ah! these terrible signs are not to be mistaken."
"Then, how long do you think he may live?"
"Till midday to-morrow—certainly not until midnight."
"In that case," said Captain Phillips, turning to the others, after a pause, during which much reviling and growling were heard alongside, "we must temper justice with mercy. Our own safety requires that we must rid ourselves of those rascals; but this one, although the worst and leader of them all, may remain on board, and die at his leisure. Stow him away in the bunks, Foster; and, doctor, give him a touch of your skill."
"If he lives?"
"He shall be hanged at Port Louis, and, if he dies, why then he becomes what he would have made each one of us—food for Jack Shark."
Morrison and Foster carried Pedro back into the forecastle, and deposited him in one of the most comfortable bunks—one of those farthest from the cutwater and heel of the bowsprit, and there, soon after, Heriot came to attend him.
"Now in with the gang-cask and the biscuits," said Captain Phillips; "look alive about it, Foster. I feel a puff of wind, so we must soon attend to the ship; throw them in a couple of oars, they can unlash one another when sober, and pull whichever way they please. Now, cut off the painter, Noah, and set the mutinous spawn adrift."
Promptly as the captain could have wished Noah cast-off the painter; but the boat still clung close to the mizzen-chains, and jarred—on the principle of attraction—against the vessel's side.