incidents of their labours. The dead
were hanged, with head or feet downwards alternately, from everything
that projected from the ship's deck or its surroundings; and
flagstaffs were stuck between their arms, with a blood-soaked rag
floating from each.

Simon's turn was approaching. A few dead bodies at most divided him
from the executioners, whose hoarse breathing he could hear. This time
nothing could save him. Whether he was hanged, or stabbed the moment
they saw that he was still alive, the issue was inevitable.

He would have made no attempt to escape, if the thought of Isabel and
Rolleston's threats had not exasperated him. He reflected that at that
moment Rolleston, the drunkard and maniac, was with the girl who for
years had been the object of his desire. What could she do against
him? Captive and bound, she was a prey vanquished beforehand.

Simon growled with rage. He contracted his muscles in the impossible
hope of bursting his bonds. The period of waiting suddenly became
intolerable; and he preferred to draw upon himself the anger of all
those brutes and to risk a fight which might at least give him a
chance of safety. And would not his safety mean Isabel's release?

Something unexpected, the sensation of a touch that was not brutal
but, on the contrary, furtive and cautious, gently persuaded him to
silence. A hand behind his back was untying his hands and removing the
ropes which held him bound against the mast, while an almost inaudible
voice whispered in his ear:

"Not a movement! . . . Not a word! . . ."

The cloth around his head was slowly withdrawn. The voice continued:

"Behave as if you were one of the gang. . . . No one is thinking about
you. . . . Do as they do. . . . And, above all, no hesitation!"

Simon obeyed without turning round. Two executioners, not far away,
were picking up a corpse. Sustained by the thought that nothing must
disgust him if he meant to rescue Isabel, he joined them and helped
them to carry their burden and hang it from one of the iron davits.

But the effort exhausted him: he was tortured by hunger and thirst. He
turned giddy and was seeking for a support when some one gently seized
his arm and drew him toward Rolleston's platform.

It was a sailor, with bare feet and dressed in a blue serge pea-jacket
and trousers; he carried a rifle across his back and wore a bandage
which hid part of his face.

Simon whispered:

"Antonio!"

"Drink!" said the Indian, ta