Ferragut, near the railing, scanned carefully the darkness of the quay. It seemed to him that he could see some men carrying another in their arms. A remnant of his wrath made him raise his right hand, still armed, aiming at the group. Then he lowered it again…. He remembered that officers would be coming to investigate the occurrence. It was better that they should find the boat absolutely silent.
Still panting, he entered the saloon under the poop and sat down.
As soon as he was within the circle of pale light that a hanging lamp spread upon the table Toni fixed his glance on his left shoulder.
"Blood!…"
"It's nothing…. Merely a scratch. The proof of it is that I can move my arm."
And he moved it, although with a certain difficulty, feeling the weight of an increasing swelling.
"By-and-by I'll tell you how it happened…. I don't believe they'll be anxious to repeat it."
Then he remained thoughtful for an instant.
"At any rate, it's best for us to get away from this port quickly….
Go and see our men. Not one of them is to speak about it!… Call
Caragol."
Before Toni could go out, the shining countenance of the cook surged up out of the obscurity. He was on his way to the saloon, without being called, anxious to know what had occurred, and fearing to find Ferragut dying. Seeing the blood, his consternation expressed itself with maternal vehemence.