“No, Richard,” interrupted Harrington, in his sweet, faint tones. “My love for her sent me. I could not love her so much if I did not love mankind more. No—I might well doubt the worth and truth of my love for Muriel if it made me unwilling to lose my life for the rights of the humblest slave.”
Wentworth rose to his feet.
“Dying, dying before our eyes,” he wailed, in a low voice. “Oh, it cannot be. Bagasse, is there no hope? The wound does not bleed much.”
Bagasse shook his head.
“I haf see many wound, Missr Wentwort’,” he sombrely replied. “Nevair one in zat place where ze man will not die. He bleed inside him.”
“Bleeding internally,” gasped Wentworth, wringing his hands. “Oh, if we could only get home to a physician. No wind—the boat dawdling along—and he dying! Look here, Captain, down with the sails, and let’s row. We must go faster than this.”
Captain Fisher rose quickly, and us he did so, Bagasse suddenly caught up his sabre and faced him.
“See, Capitaine Fisser,” he howled hoarsely, “you turn ze boat to zat dam island. You let me go zere after zose rascail for my revenge. Zey haf kill ze man I lof—zey haf kill me—zey have kill ze whole world, when zey kill ze man zat haf lof in his heart for evairybody. Now I kill zem. See, Missr Harrin’ton will die. Ze doctair haf not skill to make him well—no nevair. Good: you let me go for zose murdair devail, and chop zem into small fragment wis my sabre. You give me zat sweet revenge, zen I go home and cry wis my old eye into my grave. You do zat now.”
“Bagasse,” said the hollow voice of Harrington, “that must not be. If you love me, do not think of harming those men. No, let us go on. I want to get home. I am dying slowly, but I hope to live till I get home.”