nd the old sailor's lust for revenge--had readily complied with
his request, and had further promised to return for the boatswain in two
days. They calculated nicely that the already exhausted prisoner would
scarcely survive that long, and provisions and water ample for that
period had been left for the sustenance of Hornigold--alone.

Morgan, however, did not know this. He believed his only companions to
be the body of the half-breed who had died for him as he had lived for
him, and the severed head of a newer comrade who had not betrayed him.
The body lay almost at his feet; the head had been wedged in the sand so
that its sightless face was turned toward him in the dreadful, lidless
staring gaze of sudden death. And those two were companions with whom
he could better have dispensed, even in his solitude.

They had said to the buccaneer, as they fastened him to the rocks, that
they would not take his life, but that he would be left to the judgment
of God. What would that be? He thought he knew.

He had lived long enough on the Caribbean to know the habits of that
beautiful and cruel sea. There was a little stretch of sand at his feet
and then the water began. He estimated that the tide had been ebbing for
an hour or so when he was fastened up and abandoned. The rock to which
he had been chained was still wet, and he noticed that the dampness
existed far above his head. The water would recede--and recede--and
recede--until perhaps some three hundred feet of bare sand would stretch
before him, and then it would turn and come back, back, back. Where
would it stop? How high would it rise? Would it flood in in peaceful
calm as it was then drawing away? Would it come crashing in heavy
assault upon the sands as it generally did, beating out his life against
the rock? He could not tell. He gazed at it intently so long as there
was light, endeavoring to decide the momentous question. To watch it was
something to do. It gave him mental occupation, and so he stared and
stared at the slowly withdrawing water-line.

Of the two he thought he should prefer a storm. He would be beaten to
pieces, the life battered out of him horribly in that event; but that
would be a battle, a struggle,--action. He could fight, if he could not
wait and endure. It would be a terrible death, but it would be soon over
and, therefore, he preferred it to the slow horror of watching the
approach of the waters creeping in and up to drown him. The chief ag