"You are miserable cowards," he cried to the sailors; "one would imagine you had never seen a storm before! Do you still remember how the frigate was almost wrecked off Malta, and yet we saved our lives then?—"
"Yes, captain," interrupted a sailor, "but that was different."
"How so? What do you mean? Open your mouth, or—"
"That time we did not have any branded men on board," said the sailor, firmly.
"No branded men? Are you mad?"
"No, captain; but so long as we have these unhappy men on board the storm rages, and neither God nor the devil can save us. Look over there; there he lies on the floor, and, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!—another such a crash and we shall be food for the sharks!"
Unconsciously the captain looked in the direction indicated. A man, whose face could not be seen, lay flat on the vessel, his arms nervously clutching a package enveloped in a piece of sail-cloth. Now and then a tremor ran through his frame. He was apparently greatly frightened.
"What's the matter with the man?" asked the captain, gruffly.
"When he came on board at St. Tropez he was covered with blood, and—"