Venturing a little further, they gained the bridge. On the main deck, a long way beneath, near an open hatch, a half-caste Chilean was lying on his back. He had evidently been wounded. Blood was flowing from his leg; it smeared the white deck. The officer who had climbed down so speedily from the bridge was directing two other men how to lift him. Close by, the chief officer, Mr. Boyle, was stanching a deep cut on his chin with a handkerchief. At the same time he curtly ordered off such deck hands and stewards as came running forward, attracted by the disturbance. The girls were gazing wide-eyed at this somewhat unnerving scene, when Courtenay approached. “Better go below,” he said quietly. “I am sorry this trouble should have happened, at the beginning of the voyage, too. I hope it will not upset you. That rascally Chilean tried to knife Mr. Boyle, and those other blackguards were ready to side with him. I had to shoot quick and straight to show them I meant what I said.” “Is he dead?” asked Isobel, with a contemptuous coolness as to the fate of the mutineer which Courtenay found admirable. “Not a bit of it. Fired at his legs. Only a flesh wound, I fancy.” “Poor wretch!” murmured Elsie. “Was there no other way?” “There is only one way of dealing with that sort of skunk,” was the gruff answer. The pity in her voice implied a condemnation of his act. He resented it. He knew he had done rightly, and she knew that she had given offence by her involuntary sympathy with the suffering Chilean, who, with the passing of the paralyzing shock of the bullet, was howling dolefully now as the sailors carried him towards the forecastle. The man’s groans tortured her. Her eyes filled with tears. Joey, yelping with frenzy, leaped up to invite her to lift him above the canvas screen so that he might see what was going on. But Elsie could only reach blindly for the rail of the companion-way, and Isobel, after a smiling word of farewell to Courtenay, followed her. So it came to pass that neither Stevenson nor the moon had power to draw the captain of the _Kansas_ to the promenade deck that night. CHAPTER II. WHEREIN THE CAPTAIN KEEPS TO HIS OWN QUARTERS Doctor Christobal brought some additional details to the dinner-table. He was not the ship’s doctor. The _Kansas_, built for freight rather than passengers, did not carry a surgeon on her roll; Dr. Christobal’s presence was due to Mr. Baring’s solicitude in his daughter’s behalf. It chanced that the courtly and gray-haired Spanish physician had relinquished his practise in Chile, and was about to pay a long-promised visit to a married daughter in Barcelona. Friendship, not unaided by a good fee, induced him to travel by the _Kansas_. He had been called on to attend Mr. Boyle and the wounded Chilean, and he reported now that the chief officer’s injury was trifling, but the Chilean’s wound might incapacitate him during the remainder of the voyage.