The door stood open; a gush of cool air struck him, rushing in at an open hatch, and he stood in it, drawing it into his lungs, to fan the low-burning embers of his life. The smell of cookery was stronger now; at a little distance from him he saw the broad back of a negro bent over a caldron in which a mess of meat stewed in the bobbing midst of leeks and carrots and other things, Anthony held to the doorway, and as he stood there the black cook turned. The sweating face held only astonishment for a moment; then it broadened into a wide smile.
"Much blood!" said he in English, and pointed at the young man's head.
Anthony regarded him unsteadily; everything swam and whirled; and he still felt cold and sick.
"What ship is this?" he asked.
"Le Mousquet," said the cook. Anthony held tighter to the door-frame and leaned his wounded head against his arms. The cook's smile grew wider; his white teeth gleamed; and he said, now in French: "The last time you were aboard, you came unwanted. This time you were sent for. It makes a difference, citizen, does it not?"
Anthony Stevens, as he stood with his head in his arms, drew in a great breath; sick as he was, though everything sank and rose before him as he turned toward the man, his chin was thrust out; grotesque as his face was, with its hardened trickles of blood, there was that in his eyes that wiped the smile from the negro's face. The man tried to step past him to the companion-ladder, but Anthony warned him back and lurched toward it himself. Slowly he climbed it; he felt as though his heart would burst in his breast. But now he was upon the deck.
To the starboard he saw lights burning in rows and so knew they had not yet dropped below the city. A jib was drawing, as was the mainsail and a topsail; they bellied full in the fresh wind, and the river leaped and gurgled under the vessel's foot. There was a scattering of men along the deck; they looked and whispered as Anthony went aft, holding to the rail, to the housing, to anything that came to his hand. A pilot, muffled in a heavy coat, stood at the wheel; leaning against the bulwark, examining a chart in the light of a ship's lantern, was the man with one eye. The heavy, uncertain step of Anthony caught the officer's attention; he looked up, and as he saw the swaying figure and blood-daubed face he showed his teeth in his customary smirking way, and his eyes shot malice at his victim.
"Well, my young friend," said he, "I see you once more, do I? And aboard my ship, too! I hardly hoped for that."
"Have I been brought here at your orders?" asked Anthony, holding himself as stiffly upright as his sagging knees would let him.
The master of Le Mousquet sneered at him; his side-drawn lips were as mean as a surly dog's.