One of his shoulders was bare from neck to elbow; at every step one of his knees and part of a lean thigh protruded their nakedness through a large rent; a strip of grimy, blood-stained linen, torn right down to the waist, dangled solemnly in front of his legs. There was a horrible raw patch amongst the roots of his hair just above his temple; there was blood in his nostrils, the stamp of excessive anguish on his features, a sort of guarded despair in his eye. His voice sank while he said again, twice: “Is it you? Is it you?” And then, for the last time, “Is it you?” he repeated in a whisper. The seamen formed a wide ring, and, looking at me, he talked to himself confidentially. “Escaped--the _Inglez!_ Then thou art doomed, Domingo. Domingo, thou art doomed. Dom... Señor!” The change of tone, his effort to extend his hands towards me, surprised us all. I looked away. “Hold hard! Hold him, mate!” “Señor, condescend to behold my downfall. I am led here to the slaughter, Señor! To the slaughter, Señor! Pity! Grace! Mercy! And only a short while ago--behold. Slaughter... I... Manuel. Señor, I am universally admired--with a parched throat, Señor. I could compose a song that would make a priest weep.... A greatly parched throat, Señor,” he added piteously. I could not help turning my head. I had not been used half as hard as he. It was enough to look at him to believe in the dryness of his throat. Under the matted mass of his hair, he was grinning in amiable agony, and his globular eyes yearned upon me with a motionless and glassy lustre. “You have not forgotten me, Señor? Forget Manuel! Impossible! Manuel, Señor. For the love of God. Manuel. Manuel-del-Popolo. I did sing, deign to remember. I offered you my fidelity, Señor. As you are a _caballero_, I charge you to remember. Save me, Señor. Speak to those men.... For the sake of your honour, Señor.” His voice was extraordinarily harsh--not his own. Apparently, he believed that he was going to be cut to pieces there and then by the sailors. He seemed to read it in their faces, shuddering and shrinking whenever he raised his eyes. But all these faces gaped with good-natured wonder, except the faces of his two guardians, and these expressed a state of conscientious worry. They were ridiculously anxious to suppress his sudden contortions, as one would some gross indecency. In the scuffle they hissed and swore under their breath. They were scandalized and made unhappy by his behaviour. “Are you ready down there?” roared the bo’sun in the waist. “Olla raight! Olla raight! Waita a leetle,” I heard Castro’s voice coming, as if from under the ship. I said coldly a few words about the certain punishment awaiting a pirate in Havana, and got on to my feet stiffly. But Manuel was too terrified to understand what I meant. He attempted to snatch at me with his imprisoned hands, and got for his pains a severe jerking, which made his head roll about his shoulders weirdly.