His naked feet made no noise as he crossed the floor and Marston struggled to get up but could not. His lips refused to move when he tried to call for help; the old fellow had fixed his bloodshot eyes on him and he felt powerless. The mulatto stopped by his bunk, holding out a glass, and Marston knew he meant to poison him. He resolved he would not drink, but felt he must. There was something in the fellow's steady look that broke his resistance and for a few moments he fought a horrible battle against a strange conquering force. Then he took the glass and drained it, and the mulatto melted away. He did not vanish. This implied suddenness; he faded out of the cabin by imperceptible degrees. Marston knew no more and awoke in daylight, haunted by the dream. He was surprised to feel he was not worse; indeed, his head did not ache and although he was very weak the pain in his limbs had gone. His throat was parched and there was a strange taste in his mouth, as if he had swallowed the draught he dreamed about. Wyndham sat on the locker and got up when he saw Marston was awake. "You look different. I think you have seen the worst," he said. "I've been bothered about you, Bob." Marston smiled. He did not want to talk and the relief he saw in his comrade's face was soothing. He went to sleep again and it was dark when he awoke. He did not dream that night and in a few days got, rather shakily, out of his bunk. Wyndham put some cushions for him on the locker and they began to talk. "The boat's full to the hatches and we go to sea to-morrow," Wyndham said. "If the wind keeps fair, I expect to put you on board the Spanish liner for the Canaries in three or four days. You'll transfer to a homeward Cape boat when you arrive." "But I don't want to go home yet," Marston objected. "You are going all the same," Wyndham declared. "You have been very ill and a sick man hasn't much chance in this miasmatic air. There's no use in arguing; you have got to go." Marston grumbled, but they sailed with the next high tide, and when they made the port where the Spanish steamer lay he let Wyndham help him on board. PART II WYNDHAM CLAIMS HIS REWARD CHAPTER I MABEL PONDERS It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Marston sat by a window in an English country house. His pose was limp and his face was thin, for the fever had shaken him, but he felt his strength coming back. Outside, bare trees shook their branches in a fresh west wind, and a white belt of surf crept across the shining sands in the broad estuary. On the other side, the Welsh hills rose against the sunset in a smooth black line.