"Out of my path!" rang forth in answer, the voice being loud, imperious, and fierce; and then, in a tone of intense hatred and suppressed passion, the one word--"Dog!" As the last word rang out there was a whistling as of a stick passing through the air, a tremendous thud, and the captain fell headlong upon the rocky ground. Then there was utter silence as the young sailor placed one foot upon the prostrate man's chest, stamped upon it savagely, and strode on right away over the wild country bordering the sea. The figure loomed up once in the moonlight, as the captain rose slowly upon one elbow, and gazed after it, to see that it seemed to be of supernatural proportions, and then he sank back again with a groan. "It's a spirit," he said, "come back to her;" and then the poltroon fainted dead away. CHAPTER ELEVEN. IN THE PLANTATION. Someone singing a West Country ditty. "_His sloe-black eyes_..." A pause in the singing, and the striking of several blows with a rough hoe, to the destruction of weeds in a coffee-plantation; while, as the chops of the hoe struck the clods of earth, the fetters worn by the striker gave forth faint clinks. Then in a pleasant musical voice the singer went on with another line-- "_And his curly hair_..." More chops with the hoe, and clinks of the fetters. "_His pleasing voice_..." A heavy thump with the back of the tool at an obstinate clod, which took several more strokes before it crumbled up; and all the time the fetters clinked and clanked loudly. Then the singer went on with the sweet old minor air with its childish words. "_Did my heart ensnare_..." _Chop! chop! clink! clink! clank_! "_Genteel he was_..." "But no rake like you." "Oh, I say, Abel, mate; don't, lad, don't." "Don't what?" said Abel Dell, resting upon his hoe, and looking up at big Bart Wrigley, clothed like himself, armed with a hoe, and also decorated with fetters, as he stood wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Don't sing that there old song. It do make me feel so unked." "Unked, Bart! Well, what if it does? These are unked days." "Ay; but each time you sings that I seem to see the rocks along by the shore at home, with the ivy hanging down, and the sheep feeding, and the sea rolling in, and the blue sky, with gulls a-flying; and it makes me feel like a boy again, and, big as I am, as if I should cry." "Always were like a big boy, Bart. Hoe away, lad; the overseer's looking." Bart went on chopping weeds, diligently following his friend's example, as a sour-looking, yellow-faced man came by, in company with a soldier loosely shouldering his musket. But they passed by without speaking, and Abel continued-- "There's sea here, and blue sky and sunshine." "Ay," said Bart; "there's sunshine hot enough to fry a mack'rel. Place is right enough if you was free; but it ar'n't home, Abel, it ar'n't home." "Home! no," said the young man, savagely. "But we have no home. She spoiled that."