“Searched it all—every bush.”
“But who? which of the French?”
“Dubrosc and that ’ar boy that was always with him—both desarted.”
“You are sure they are missing?”
“Looked high and low, Cap’n. Gravenitz seed Dubrosc steal into the chaparril with his musket. Shortly afterwards we heern a shot, but thought nothin’ of it till this mornin’, when one of the sodgers foun’ a Spanish sombrary out thar; and Chane heern some’dy say the shot passed through Major Twing’s markey. Besides, we foun’ this butcher-knife where yer was lyin’.”
Lincoln here held up a species of Mexican sword called a macheté.
“Ha!—well.”
“That’s all, Cap’n; only it’s my belief there was Mexicans on this island, and them Frenchmen’s gone with them.”
After Lincoln left me I lay musing on this still somewhat mysterious affair. My memory, however, gradually grew clearer; and the events of the preceding night soon became linked together, and formed a complete chain. The shot that passed so near my head in Twing’s tent—the boat—the French words I had heard before I received the blow—and the exclamation, “Coup pour coup!”—all convinced me that Lincoln’s conjectures were right.
Dubrosc had fired the shot and struck the blow that had left me senseless.