He looked forward as he spoke and exchanged a villainous laugh with the cook, his instrument, who had overheard us and betrayed. “Ye would mak' me swing for it, would ye, John Horn, when ye get ashore? That's what I would expect frae a keelie oot o' Clyde.” It is hard to credit that man could be so vile as this, but of such stuff was Daniel Risk. He was a fiend in the glory of his revenge upon the seaman who had threatened him with the gallows; uplifted like a madman's, his face, that was naturally sallow, burned lamp-red at his high cheek-bones, his hale eye gloated, his free hand flourished as in an exultation. His mate sat silent beside him on the stern-thwart, clearing the sheets: the crew, who had out the sweeps to keep the boat's bows in the wind, made an effort to laugh at his jocosities, but clearly longed to be away from this tragedy. And all the time, I think, I stood beside the weather bulwark, surrendered to the certainty of a speedy death, with the lines of a ballad coming back again and again to my mind: An' he shall lie in fathoms deep, The star-fish ower his een shall creep. An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep In the hall o' Monaltrie. I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in spite of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea that beat about my feet. My silence--my seeming indifference--would seem to have touched the heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn. At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on me. “I'm saying, Greig,” he cried, “noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy was no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole that--astern, lads, and tak' the purser aboard.” The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick me off the doomed ship. At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a second--praise God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never released the cleat by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still upon the lower shrouds and saw hope upon his countenance. “Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?” said I. “Not if he offered a thousand pounds,” cried Risk, “in ye come!” and Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump among them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as with a spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, bleeding profusely and half insensible. “You are a foul dog!” I cried to his assailant. “And I'll settle with you for that!” “Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!” cried Risk impatient. “Let us look oot for oorselves, that's whit I say,” cried Murchison angry at my threat, and prepared cheerfully to see me perish. “What for should we risk oor necks with either o' them?” and he pushed off slightly with his boat-hook.