Hobart was lifted to it, and thus sat facing the crowd. He had a finer look than I had ever seen from him; he had passed through purgatory. He looked openly at the people, and at last his glance rested on Mr. Vancouver. It seemed to hold a deep meaning. Mr. Vancouver shrank even more than when he had seen the iron hand come down.
I went up to Captain Mason and reported that Hobart was conscious.
The captain nodded, came forward, I beside him, and looked down on the beaten man, who anxiously returned the look.
“May I say a word, Captain?” Hobart asked.
“Certainly.”
Hobart turned to me. “You are a hard man,” he said, “but square and brave. So are you, Captain Mason. I deserved what I got, and a good deal more. But I’m sorry for what I did, and I ask you to forgive me.”
There was frank admiration in Captain Mason’s face, for he was observing another strong man emerge from the first hard lesson in a discipline that the sailor had known for many a year.
“May I say something to the boys?” asked Hobart.
“Of course.”
Hobart worked round to face his fellow-conspirators. In silence he looked at one after another.