At that a great light came to me. This was the reason for the masked cuddy skylights, the utter darkness of the _Seven Sisters_ while her boats were plying to the shore; for this was I so closely kept at her ridiculous manifest; the lists of lace and plate I had been fatuously copying were lists of stuff no longer on the ship at all, but back in the possession of the owner of the brigantine. “You are an experienced seaman--?” “I have had a vessel of my own,” broke in Horn, some vanity as well as shame upon his countenance. “Well, you are the more likely to know the best way out of this trap we are in,” I went on. “For a certain reason I am not at all keen on it to go back to Scotland, but I would sooner risk that than run in leash with a scoundrel like this who's sinking his command, not to speak of hazarding my unworthy life with a villainous gang. Is there any way out of it, Horn?” The seaman pondered, a dark frown upon his tanned forehead, where the veins stood out in knots, betraying his perturbation. The wind whistled faintly in the tops, the _Seven Sisters_ plainly went by the head; she had a slow response to her helm, and moved sluggishly. Still the pump was clanking and we could hear the water streaming through the scupper holes. Risk had joined his mate and was casting anxious eyes over the waters. “If we play the safty here, Mr. Greig,” said Horn, “there's a chance o' a thwart for us when the _Seven Ststers_ comes to her labour. That's oor only prospect. At least they daurna murder us.” “And what about the crew?” I asked. “Do you tell me there is not enough honesty among them all to prevent a blackguardly scheme like this?” “We're the only twa on this ship this morning wi' oor necks ootside tow, for they're all men o' the free trade, and broken men at that,” said Horn resolutely, and even in the midst of this looming disaster my private horror rose within me. “Ah!” said I, helpless to check the revelation, “speak for yourself, Mr. Horn; it's the hangman I'm here fleeing from.” He looked at me with quite a new countenance, clearly losing relish for his company. “Anything by-ordinar dirty?” he asked, and in my humility I did not have the spirit to resent what that tone and query implied. “Dirty enough,” said I, “the man's dead,” and Horn's face cleared. “Oh, faith! is that all?” quo' he, “I was thinkin' it might be coinin'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Greig, or somethin' in the fancy way. But a gentleman's quarrel ower the cartes or a wench--that's a different tale. I hate homicide mysel' to tell the truth, but whiles I've had it in my heart, and in a way o' speakin* Dan Risk this meenute has my gully-knife in his ribs.”