The wretched cook was seized with a spasm of resolution, sawing back and forth with the blade on O'Brien's wrist. The veins were severed. Sullivan held the tureen cover close underneath. The cut veins gaped wide, but no ruddy flood gushed forth. There was no blood at all. The veins were dry and empty. No one spoke. The grim and silent figures swayed in unison with each heave of the ship. Every eye was turned fixedly upon that inconceivable and monstrous thing, the dry veins of a creature that was alive. “'Tis a warnin',” Mahoney cried. “Lave the b'y alone. Mark me words. His death'll do none iv yez anny good.” “Try at the elbow--the left elbow, 'tis nearer the heart,” the captain said finally, in a dim and husky voice that was unlike his own. “Give me the knife,” O'Brien said roughly, taking it out of the cook's hand. “I can't be lookin' at ye puttin' me to hurt.” Quite coolly he cut the vein at the left elbow, but, like the cook, he failed to bring blood. “This is all iv no use,” Sullivan said. “'Tis better to put him out iv his misery by bleedin' him at the throat.” The strain had been too much for the lad. “Don't be doin' ut,” he cried. “There'll be no blood in me throat. Give me a little time. 'Tis cold an' weak I am. Be lettin' me lay down an' slape a bit. Then I'll be warm an' the blood'll flow.” “'Tis no use,” Sullivan objected. “As if ye cud be slapin' at a time like this. Ye'll not slape, and ye'll not warm up. Look at ye now. You've an ague.” “I was sick at Limerick wan night,” O'Brien hurried on, “an' the dochtor cudn't bleed me. But after slapin' a few hours an' gettin' warm in bed the blood came freely. It's God's truth I'm tellin' yez. Don't be murderin' me!” “His veins are open now,” the captain said. “'Tis no use leavin' him in his pain. Do it now an' be done with it.” They started to reach for O'Brien, but he backed away. “I'll be the death iv yez!” he screamed. “Take yer hands off iv me, Sullivan! I'll come back! I'll haunt yez! Wakin' or slapin', I'll haunt yez till you die!” “'Tis disgraceful!” yelled Behane. “If the short stick'd ben mine, I'd a-let me mates cut the head off iv me an' died happy.” Sullivan leaped in and caught the unhappy lad by the hair. The rest of the men followed, O'Brien kicked and struggled, snarling and snapping at the hands that clutched him from every side. Little Johnny Sheehan broke out into wild screaming, but the men took no notice of him. O'Brien was bent backward to the deck, the tureen cover under his neck. Gorman was shoved forward. Some one had thrust a large sheath-knife into his hand. “Do yer duty! Do yer duty!” the men cried. The cook bent over, but he caught the boy's eyes and faltered. “If ye don't, I'll kill ye with me own hands,” Behane shouted. From every side a torrent of abuse and threats poured in upon the cook. Still he hung back. “Maybe there'll be more blood in his veins than O'Brien's,” Sullivan suggested significantly.