fastened its hook
in a little raised hump of rock; then, grasping the hauling line,
pulled the tackle taut. The result was a serviceable lifeline, waist
high, across the dangerous passage.

The sailor took a turn about his body with the bight of the rope, and
leaned back, holding a steady strain upon the tackle. Martin could see
now why they had fetched a tackle, and not just a length of rope--there
were no boldly jutting rocks about which a rope might be looped and
knotted, but the hooks of the blocks fitted into the small inequalities
the edges of the walls presented. So long as a strain was kept upon
the hauling line, the hooks would bite, and the lifeline would be quite
safe.

Martin followed this work with a watchful eye. He was on the lookout
for a chance to execute his plan, waiting for a careless moment on the
part of those about him, which would give him an opportunity to free
his hands, and strike his blow.

For this was the time and the place! Here, by the edge of the abyss,
must come his opportunity, his only opportunity. Somehow he must get
possession of Ichi's revolver, the only firearm in the crowd. If he
obtained that, he might be able to hold this gang at bay, and prevent
them returning to the ship until after the bosun's surprise party. Or,
failing that, he could surely finish some of them before their sharp
knives finished him. He could dispose of Ichi.

And this was the only plan he had. To fight, and to sacrifice himself,
if need be. He had dismissed the thought of escape, of making a dash
and losing himself in the black caves. He could do that, he knew. But
his escape would not help his shipmates; it would not save Ruth.

He knew that if he did not run for it, his death was almost certain.
If he fought, when he fought, he would be killed. If he did not make
his chance to fight, Ichi would murder him as soon as the ambergris was
discovered--he was sure this program was agreed upon by Carew and Ichi.
And if the ambergris were not discovered he would be given over to Moto
for torture. Martin was afraid of Moto, and a little bit afraid of
death--but his fear for himself was quite overshadowed by his other
great fear, his fear for Ruth. His fate was nothing. But her fate!
It was because of Ruth he disdained an attempt at flight; it was for
Ruth he would strike his blow, and take death if it came.

Hence Martin stood meekly by while the sailors rigged the line, and
watched for hi