"Why, Sir Oliver," said I, "I believe that is Mr Donovan himself. Poor fellow, he must have gone mad."
"No doubt of it—it is so, sir," whistled Sprawl.
Here the crew of the felucca, led by little Binnacle, made a rush aft, seized the lieutenant, and having overpowered him, launched their little shallop, in which the midshipman, with two men, instantly shoved off; but they had not paddled above half a-dozen yards from the vessel's side, when the maniac, a most powerful man, broke from those who held him, knocked them down, right and left, like so many nine-pins, and seizing his trabuco, pointed it at the skiff, while he sung out in a voice of thunder—"Come back, Mr Binnacle; come back, you small villain, or I will shoot you dead."
The poor lad was cowed, and did as he was desired.
"Lower away the jolly boat," cried the commodore, in a flaming passion; but checking himself, he continued—"Gently, men—belay there—keep all fast with the boat, Mr Lanyard," who had jumped aft to execute the order—"We must humour the poor fellow, after all, who is evidently not himself."
I could hear a marine, a half crazy creature, of the name of Lennox, who stood by, on this whisper to his neighbour—"Ay, Sir Oliver, better fleech with a madman than fecht with him."
"Are you Mr Donovan, pray?" said the commodore, mildly, but still speaking through the trumpet.
"I was that gentleman," was the startling answer.
"Then come on board, man; come on board," in a wheedling tone.
"How would you have me to do that thing?" said poor Donovan. "Come on board, did you say? Divil now, Sir Oliver, you are mighthy unrasonable."