By far the gravest question now is, was the knife that did the deed rusty? It was a sheath-knife such as all sailors carry in a little leathern scabbard by the hip. It must have been fairly bright, though, as there has been a great deal of use lately for sheath-knives in cutting away old chafing gear, and therein lies Rarx’s salvation. His sufferings are very great now; at long intervals he is somewhat easier, but he groans almost continuously in what seems to be excruciating agony, his breath comes in gasps, and perspiration oozes from his face in large beads, as he wallows and squirms in his narrow, hot bunk, almost crying aloud sometimes when the ship rolls. And what of Louis? He has been removed to the lazarette and fastened, still handcuffed, to a thick stanchion. There he sits brooding in the gloom, for no light penetrates the apartment save by the booby-hatch that leads into it, secured with a chain heavy enough for a maintop-sail-sheet. He has, however, plenty of air and good food, including soft bread, which is no longer given to the men; but there is not space enough for him to stand upright in, a kneeling posture being the most elevated that he can assume. Still, there’s nothing else to do with him, for he certainly couldn’t be allowed at large. Three times a day the mate carries him his food, liberates him when he has finished and marches him forward, walking about five feet behind him, his hand gripping a pistol in his hip-pocket, ready for the least false move on the part of the Frenchman or any one else. The latter’s face is a study as he walks rapidly forward, his heavy, dark brows hanging sulkily over flashing eyes which he never raises from the deck. Through the midst of his shipmates he strides silently with bare feet, his immovable face shrouded in deep scowls, looking neither to the right nor left. They make way for him with averted heads as he passes through, followed by his jailer, and the men close up again as after the passage of a blood-hound in leash. Then in a moment back again he hurries along the deck, mounts the poop-ladder, descends into the dusky recess, holds out his hands, the irons are snapped on, with the chains between, and he is left for another five or six hours to muse in solitude upon his bloody deed. His face shows as yet no indication of relenting; but as day after day drags on in all its awful loneliness even his nature, however dauntless, must at last succumb to that most terrible of all punishments, solitary confinement.