"That was deftly done," said the Basque, wiping the blade. "Ho! my little Baptiste. How dost thou feel with that cracked pate of thine?" The Provençal was sitting on a chest, his head in his hands, trembling with fear. "Look at my head, good El Toro, I beseech you," he cried. "See if it is a dangerous wound." "A mere scratch," replied the Basque, after a cursory examination. "What a timorous woman thou art!" His comrades washed the wound and bandaged his head; then Baptiste recovered his presence of mind, and gave his orders. "Put the body over the side at once, but first fasten a weight on to it. It must not float about to tell tales to some passing vessel." When this had been done, he said, "Now carry that noisy Léon out of my cabin. Take him forward to where the other prisoners are." The Spaniards raised the helpless Breton, who, understanding that there was no one to whom he could give the alarm by crying out, now resigned himself to his fate, and uttered not a word as they laid him by the side of his four comrades. "The vessel is ours!" Baptiste called out in a loud voice when he approached Carew. There was no further reason for the avoidance of noise. "I salute you, captain of _La Bonne Esperance_!" "But where is Duval?" asked Carew. "Killed, captain; but in self-defence. Look at my unfortunate head: that was his doing. Had it not been for our brave El Toro you would have lost your trusty mate." Carew looked down at the five men lying on the deck. They were all awake now, the pain caused by the tightness of their ligatures having at last dispelled the lethargy of the drug. They realised all that had happened; they knew that they were doomed to die at the hands of this treacherous band. A lantern swung from the awning-pole above them, and by its dim light Carew saw that their faces wore an expression of dogged resolution, which changed suddenly to one of loathing and contempt when their eyes met his. Thus they stared at him in silence. He hastily turned his face away. "What next, captain? It must be done sooner or later. Why not at once?" said Baptiste. "Take them into the forecastle for to-night. Secure the two sick men as well," was the reply. "Just Heaven, what a cruel thing a British conscience is!" exclaimed Baptiste, with a loud, scornful laugh. He was intoxicated with the successful issue of his scheme. "I, the man without scruples, would have mercifully killed these men outright. You, the man of conscience, shrink from doing so, but are willing to shut them up in the pestilential hole yonder, so that an agonising fever may kill them for you. Do you really flatter yourself, oh, self-deceiver, that you in this way absolve your soul from the guilt?"