Joe and Hal followed slowly.
Inside the kitchen everything seemed dead and quiet; the atmosphere was cold and damp and smelt of stale rum; the fire had died down to a few smouldering embers, and the steady ticking of the clock was the only sound.
Sue crouched in a corner shivering, her eyes wild with horror, and her teeth chattering. The two long tables had been dragged together, and on this rough bier Dick and Anny lay side by side, the knife between them.
There had not been time to wash the tables even, had any one desired to do so, and the two lay among the dregs and sloppings of the night’s drinking.
Blueneck walked across the kitchen and stood looking down at the bodies without uncovering.
Gilbot followed nervously.
“What are you going to do?” he whispered anxiously.
The sailor said nothing for a moment or two but continued to stare down at the limp, blood-stained figure whose white fingers held the thin red knife.
Gilbot stood trembling behind him, a picture of a wild crowd of captainless seamen sacking his inn rising up in his mind.
A strange light began to break over the Spanish sailor’s face, and he stroked his ill-shaven chin thoughtfully.