“You are a sneaking wretch, Joseph!”
“What you say? No call me dat—I tell you,” cried the steward, as he pushed the young man against the rail.
The chief mutineer interposed. With the stock of his pistol he dealt the Portuguese a blow upon the head that felled him to the deck.
“Equal rights!” he said, quietly, as he pointed to the prostrate man, and placed the pistol in his pocket; “that’s the law aboard o’ this craft, in future. This way, Driko, Amolo, and Black Squall,” he added, motioning to three of the New Zealanders; “take Marline to the run, and fasten the hatch the same as it was fastened when I was there!”
The men obeyed with alacrity, and Marline was in the run. No sooner had the hatch been secured, than he heard the rushing of the water, and the grinding of the icebergs against the ship’s bottom, as she boomed upon her way.
His reflections were certainly very gloomy. The thought that Alice was only separated from him by a few planks, and yet that he could neither hold converse with her, nor go to her in case that Tom Lark, or any of his party, should insult her, worked upon his mind until it was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement.
“What are the plans of these mutineers in regard to the young girl?” he asked himself again and again, and although it seemed to him that they must respect the purity, the loveliness, and the goodness of one who had benefited them by a thousand of those kindly little attentions to their welfare and comfort which a woman in a ship—especially if she have influence with the captain—has it in her power to bestow, yet there was a presentiment within him that whispered of trouble and suffering.
And with his head bowed upon his bosom—with his manacled hands against his brow, and his heart beating loud and fast with anxiety—he offered up a silent but fervent prayer to God, to spare his beautiful Alice—to shield her from all harm—and restore her to the arms of those who loved her.
That prayer was scarcely finished when he felt a hand upon his arm, and on lifting his head, he was enabled to make out in the gloom with which he had by this time become familiar, the outlines of a human countenance.
“Hist!” whispered a low voice, “don’t speak too loud; it’s me—Stump—and this if I ain’t mistaken is Harry Marline!”