Tom Horn stood at the foot of the companion-ladder when Anthony came below; the man's face looked wan in the half-light, and the pale glow of his eyes had the cold melancholy of the moonlight.
"The deck," said he, "is held by the brig's people. And the brig is not your friend."
"Captain Weir is there," said Anthony tolerantly.
"Are the hawks to be trusted when the swan come down the wind?" asked Tom Horn mildly.
"The captain will see to us," said Anthony.
Mademoiselle, worn and faint from the long battle with the storm, stood by.
"The captain is hurt; he is held fast to his bed," she protested.
"He will hear," said Anthony, dull with sleep. "An old fox, and with the blow of a bear. The brig will not approach while he is there; never fear."
"But," said mademoiselle, a vague dread in her heart, "if she should? If the men on deck should overpower him?"
"Then," said Anthony, "I shall hear. For all I am so full of sleep, I'll be keen enough, if wanted."