"Then you cannot see it out upon my bridge," Anderson said. The determined tone in which he spoke only added to my impotent wrath.
"Very well, I will return to the deck, and if any of your men should attempt to interfere with me he will do so at his peril." With that, I slung my revolver round so as to have it ready to my hand. I was beside myself. My conduct was already bad enough, but I made it worse before I left the bridge.
"And if you, Anderson, disobey my orders—my orders, do you hear?—an explosion such as took place in the middle of the English channel shall take place in the middle of this ship."
"For God's sake leave the bridge. I want my wits about me, and I have no intention of earning another exhibition of your devilries."
"Then be careful not to trouble me again." Thus after having passed through much danger with a spirit not unbecoming—as I hope—an English gentleman, I acted, when the worst was passed, like a peevish schoolboy. I am ashamed of my conduct in this small matter, and trust it will pass without much notice in the narrative of events of greater moment.
On deck, Natalie Brande, Edith Metford, and Percival were standing together, their eyes fixed on the island. Edith's face was deathly white, even in the ruddy glow which was now over land and sea. When I saw her pallor, my evil temper passed away.
"It would be impossible for you to be quite well," I said to her anxiously; "but has anything happened since I left you? You are very pale."
"Oh no," she answered, "I'm all right; a little faint after that ride. I shall be better soon."
Natalie turned her weird eyes on me and said in the hollow voice we had heard once before—when she spoke to us on the island—"That is her way of telling you that your horse broke her right arm when she caught him for you. She held him, you remember, with her left hand. The doctor has set the limb. She will not suffer long."
"Heaven help us, this awful night," Edith cried. "How do you know that, Natalie?"