you
how he had died.

"One," said I, "and that which killed him left behind! He's been struck
down as he ran. There's the knife that did it, lads!"

A young seaman among us shuddered when he saw the knife still sticking
in the dead man's side. The rest of us drew the body out of the light
and went on again with wary steps. We were near the great dormitory at
this time, the door of which I myself had locked; but it was open now
and the lock broken. Lamps still burned in that vast room; food lay
still upon its tables; but the story of it was to be read at every
step. Chests overturned, chairs smashed, a litter of clothes upon the
floor, broken bottles, an empty pistol, great marks upon the door where
iron had indented it, bore witness to the struggle for light and
freedom. The prisoners had fled, but life was the price of liberty. I
took one swift glance round this broken prison, and then led my
comrades out of it.

"The birds have flown and one of them is winged," said I. "There are
five more to take, and the shadows hide them! Come on, my lads, or
they'll say that eight were scared by five, and that's no tale to tell
of honest seamen!"

I spoke up to encourage them, for, truth to tell, the dark and the
mystery were playing strange tricks with my nerves. As we penetrated
deeper into that labyrinth I could start at every shadow and see a
figure in every cranny. The men that the dark patches harboured, where
were they? Their eyes might be watching every step we took, their
pistols covering our bodies as we hurried on to the depths. And yet no
sound was heard, the great engine throbbed always; the cool, sweet air
blew fresh upon our faces.

Now, the first voice spoke at the head of the engine-room stairs, from
an open cavern which no lamp illumined. I had just called out to
Captain Nepeen to follow me to the engine-room, and was bidding the
others wait at the stairs-head, when a shot came flashing out of the
darkness, and in the flame of the gun's light I saw a great hulking
figure, and recognised it instantly. It was that of Kess Denton, the
yellow man, whom I had left senseless at the door of Ruth Bellenden's
bungalow more than twenty days ago. A giant figure, the head bandaged,
the arms and chest naked, a rifle gripped in both hands, this phantom
of the darkness showed itself for an instant and then vanished with an
echoing laugh which mocked and angered us. At the same moment the young
seaman who had shuddered be