The negro unhooked the lantern, let fall a rope ladder into the hold and pushed Ortho towards it. He descended a few feet and found himself standing on the cargo, bales of mixed merchandise apparently. In the darkness around him he could hear voices conversing, calling out. The negro dropped after him and he saw that the hold was full of people—Europeans from what he could see—lying on top of the cargo. They shouted to him, but he was too dazed to answer. His guide propelled him towards the after bulkhead and suddenly tripped him. He fell on his back on a bale and lay still while the negro shackled his feet together, picked up the lantern and was gone. “Englishman?” said a voice beside him. “Aye.” “Where did you drop from?” “Picked up—I was blown off-shore.” “Alone?” “Yes, all but my mate, and he’s dead. What craft is this?” “The _Ghezala_, xebec of Sallee.” “Where are we bound for?” “Sallee, on the coasts of Barbary, of course; to be sold as a slave among the heathen infidels. Where did you think you was bound for? Fortunate Isles with rings on your fingers to splice a golden queen—eh?” “Barbary—infidels—slave,” Ortho repeated stupidly. No wonder Anson had leered as he went down! He turned, sighing, over on his face. “Slaves—infidels—Barb . . .” and was asleep. CHAPTER XIX He woke up eighteen hours later, at about noon—or so his neighbor told him; it was impossible to distinguish night from day down there. The hold was shallow and three parts full; this brought them within a few feet of the deck beams and made the atmosphere so thick it was difficult to breathe, congested as they were. Added to which, the rats and cockroaches were very active and the stale bilge water, washing to and fro under the floor, reeked abominably. The other prisoners were not talkative. Now and again one would shout across to a friend and a short conversation would ensue, but most of the time they kept silence, as though steeped in melancholy. The majority sounded like foreigners. Ortho sat up, tried to stretch his legs, and found they were shackled to a chain running fore and aft over the cargo. His left-hand neighbor spoke: “Woke up, have you? Well, how d’you fancy it?” Ortho grunted. “Oh, well, mayn’t be so bad. You’m a likely lad; you’ll fetch a good price, mayhap, and get a good master. ’Tain’t the strong mule catches the whip; ’tis the old uns—y’understan’? To-morrow’s the best day for hard work over there and the climate’s prime; better nor England by a long hawse, and that’s the Gospel truth, y’understan’?” “How do you know?” Ortho inquired. The man snorted. “Know? Ain’t I been there nine year?” “In Sallee?” “No—Algiers . . . but it’s the same, see what I mean? Nine years a slave with old Abd-el-Hamri in Sidi-Okbar Street. Only exchanged last summer, and now, dang my tripes, if I ain’t took again!” “Where did they catch you?”