“Over what? what has happened to me?” I inquired.
“Och, Captin, yer honour, you’ve been nearly murthered, and all by thim Frinch scoundhrels; bad luck to their dirty frog-atin’ picthers!”
“Murdered! French scoundrels! Bob, what is it?”
“Why, yer see, Cap’n, ye’ve had a cut hyur over the head; and we think it’s them Frenchmen.”
“Oh! I remember now; a blow—but the Death?—the Death?”
I started up from the bed as the phantom of my night adventure returned to my imagination.
“The Death, Cap’n?—what do yer mean?” inquired Lincoln, holding me in his strong arms.
“Oh! the Cap’n manes the skilleton, maybe,” said Chane.
“What skeleton?” I demanded.
“Why, an owld skilleton the boys found in the chaparril, yer honner. They hung it to a three; and we found yer honner there, with the skilleton swinging over ye like a sign. Och! the Frinch bastes!”