“It is not the key to a jewel-case.”
“It does not concern you what it is.”
“It is the key to the storeroom door.”
“You are stronger than I am. You look the brute. You can knock me away and get it.”
I knew then, of course, that it was the storeroom key. But I could not take it by force. And so defiantly she faced me, so valiant was every line of her slight figure, that I was ashamed of my impulse to push her aside and take it. I loved her with every inch of my overgrown body, and I did the thing she knew I would do. I bowed and left the cabin. But I had no intention of losing the key. I could not take it by force, but she knew as well as I did what finding it there in Turner’s room meant. Turner had locked me in. But I must be able to prove it—my wits against hers, and the advantage mine. I had the women under guard.
I went up on deck.
A curious spectacle revealed itself. Turner, purple with anger, was haranguing the men, who stood amidships, huddled together, but grim and determined withal. Burns, a little apart from the rest, was standing, sullen, his arms folded. As Turner ceased, he took a step forward.
“You are right, Mr. Turner,” he said. “It’s your ship, and it’s up to you to say where she goes and how she goes, sir. But some one will hang for this, Mr. Turner,—some one that’s on this deck now; and the bodies are going back with us—likewise the axe. There ain’t going to be a mistake—the right man is going to swing.”
“That’s mutiny!”
“Yes, sir,” Burns acknowledged, his face paling a little. “I guess you could call it that.”