Kitabı oku: «The Madman and the Pirate», sayfa 8
Chapter Eleven
When Zeppa, as related in a previous chapter, staggered up the mountain side with Richard Rosco in his arms, his great strength was all but exhausted, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he succeeded at last, before night-fall, in laying his burden on the couch in his cave.
Then, for the first time, he seemed to have difficulty in deciding what to do. Now, at last, the pirate was in his power—he could do to him what he pleased! As he thought thus he turned a look of fierce indignation upon him. But, even as he gazed, the look faded, and was replaced by one of pity, for he could not help seeing that the wretched man was suffering intolerable anguish, though no murmur escaped from his tightly-compressed lips.
“Slay me, in God’s name, kill me at once, Zeppa,” he gasped, “and put me out of torment.”
“Poor man! poor Rosco!” returned the madman in a gentle voice, “I thought to have punished thee, but God wills it otherwise.”
He said no more, but rose hastily and went into the bush. Returning in a few moments with a bundle of herbs, he gathered some sticks and kindled a fire. A large earthenware pot stood close to the side of the cave’s entrance—a clumsy thing, made by himself of some sort of clay. This he filled with water, put the herbs in, and set it on the fire. Soon he had a poultice spread on a broad leaf which, when it was cold, he applied to one of the pirate’s dreadfully burnt feet. Then he spread another poultice, with which he treated the other foot.
What the remedy was that Zeppa made use of on this occasion is best known to himself; we can throw no light on the subject. Neither can we say whether the application was or was not in accordance with the practice of the faculty, but certain it is that Rosco’s sufferings were immediately assuaged, and he soon fell into a tranquil sleep.
Not so the madman, who sat watching by his couch. Poor Zeppa’s physical sufferings and exertion had proved too much for him; the strain on his shattered nerves had been too severe, and a burning fever was now raging within him, so that the delirium consequent on disease began to mingle, so to speak, with his insanity.
He felt that something unusual was going on within him. He tried to restrain himself, and chain down his wandering, surging thoughts, but the more he sought to hold himself down, the more did a demon—who seemed to have been especially appointed for the purpose—cast his mental fastenings adrift.
At last he took it into his head that the slumbering pirate had bewitched him. As this idea gained ground and the internal fires increased, the old ideas of revenge returned, and he drew the knife which hung at his belt, gazing furtively at the sleeper as he did so.
But the better nature within the man maintained a fierce conflict with the worse.
“He murdered my son—my darling Orley!” murmured the madman, as he felt the keen edge and point of his knife, and crept towards the sleeper, while a fitful flicker of the dying fire betrayed the awful light that seemed to blaze in his eyes. “He carried me from my home! He left Marie to die in hopeless grief! Ha! ha! ha! Oh God! keep me back—back from this.”
The noise awoke Rosco, who sat up and gazed at Zeppa in horror, for he saw at a glance that a fit of his madness must have seized him.
“Zeppa!” he exclaimed, raising himself with difficulty on both hands, and gazing sternly in the madman’s face.
“Ha!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly throwing his knife on the ground within Rosco’s reach, “see, I scorn to take advantage of your unarmed condition. Take that and defend yourself. I will content myself with this.”
He caught up the heavy staff which he was in the habit of carrying with him in his mountain rambles. At the same instant Rosco seized the knife and flung it far into the bush.
“See! I am still unarmed,” he said.
“True, but you are not the less guilty, Rosco, and you must die. It is my duty to kill you.”
He advanced with the staff up-raised.
“Stay! Let us consider before you strike. Are you not a self-appointed executioner?”
The question was well put. The madman lowered the staff to consider. Instantly the pirate made a plunge at and caught it. Zeppa strove to wrench it from his grasp, but the pirate felt that his life might depend on his retaining hold, and, in his extremity, was endued with almost supernatural strength. In the fierce struggles that ensued, the embers of the fire were scattered, and the spot reduced to almost total darkness. During the unequal conflict, the pirate, who could only get upon his knees, was swept and hurled from side to side, but still he grasped the staff with vice-like power to his breast. Even in that fearful moment the idea, which had already occurred to him, of humouring his antagonist gained force. He suddenly loosed his hold. Zeppa staggered backward, recovered himself, sprang forward, and aimed a fearful blow at his adversary, who suddenly fell flat down. The staff passed harmlessly over him and was shattered to pieces on the side of the cave.
“Ha! ha!” laughed the pirate lightly, as he sat up again, “you see, Zeppa, that Providence is against you. How else could I, a helpless cripple, have held my own against you? And see, the very weapon you meant to use is broken to pieces. Come now, delay this execution for a little, and let us talk together about this death which you think is due. There is much to be said about death, you know, and I should like to get to understand it better before I experience it.”
“There is reason in that, Rosco,” said Zeppa, sitting down on the ground by the side of the pirate, and leaning his back against the rock. “You have much need to consider death, for after death comes the judgment, and none of us can escape that.”
“True, Zeppa, and I should not like to face that just now, for I am not fit to die, although, as you truly say, I deserve death. I have no hesitation in admitting that,” returned the pirate, with some bitterness; “I deserve to die, body and soul, and, after all, I don’t see why I should seek so earnestly to delay the righteous doom.”
“Right, Rosco, right; you talk sense now, the doom is well deserved. Why, then, try to prevent me any longer from inflicting it when you know it is my duty to do so?”
“Because,” continued the pirate, who felt that to maintain the conflict even with words was too much for his exhausted strength, “because I have heard that God is merciful.”
“Merciful!” echoed Zeppa. “Of course He is. Have you not heard that His mercy is so great that He has provided a way of escape for sinners—through faith in His own dear Son?”
“It does not, however, seem to be a way of escape for me,” said the pirate, letting himself sink back on his couch with a weary sigh.
“Yes, it is! yes, it is!” exclaimed Zeppa eagerly, as he got upon the familiar theme; “the offer is to the chief of sinners, ‘Whosoever will,’ ‘Turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die?’”
“Tell me about it” said Rosco faintly, as the other paused.
Zeppa had delayed a moment in order to think for his disordered mind had been turned into a much-loved channel, that of preaching the Gospel to inquiring sinners. For many years he had been training himself in the knowledge of the Scriptures, and, being possessed of a good memory, he had got large portions of it by heart. Gathering together the embers of the scattered fire, he sat down again, and, gazing thoughtfully at the flickering flames, began to point out the way of salvation to the pirate.
Sleep—irresistible sleep—gradually overcame the latter; still the former went on repeating long passages of God’s word. At last he put a question, and, not receiving an answer, looked earnestly into the face of his enemy.
“Ah! poor man. He sleeps. God cannot wish me to slay him until I have made him understand the gospel. I will delay—till to-morrow.”
Before the morrow came Zeppa had wandered forth among the cliffs and gorges of his wild home, with the ever-increasing fires of fever raging in his veins.
Sometimes his madness took the form of wildest fury, and, grasping some bush or sapling that might chance to be near, he would struggle with it as with a fiend until utter exhaustion caused him to fall prostrate on the ground, where he would lie until partial rest and internal fire gave him strength again to rise. At other times he would run up and down the bills like a greyhound, bounding from rock to rock, and across chasms where one false step would have sent him headlong to destruction.
Frequently he ran down to the beach and plunged into the sea, where he would swim about aimlessly until exhaustion sent him to the shore, where he would fall down, as at other times, and rest—if such repose could be so styled.
Thus he continued fighting for his life for several days.
During that time Richard Rosco lay in the cave almost starving.
At first he had found several cocoa-nuts, the hard shells of which had been broken by Zeppa, and appeased his hunger with these, but when they were consumed, he sought about the cave for food in vain. Fortunately he found a large earthenware pot—evidently a home-made one—nearly full of water, so that he was spared the agony of thirst as well as hunger.
When he had scraped the shells of the cocoa-nuts perfectly clean, the pirate tried to crawl forth on hands and knees, to search for food, his feet being in such a state that it was not possible for him to stand, much less to walk. But Zeppa had long ago cleared away all the wild fruits that grew in the neighbourhood of his cave, so that he found nothing save a few wild berries. Still, in his condition, even these were of the utmost value: they helped to keep him alive. Another night passed, and the day came. He crept forth once more, but was so weakened by suffering and want that he could not extend his explorations so far as before, and was compelled to return without having tasted a mouthful. Taking a long draught of water, he lay down, as he firmly believed, to die.
And as he lay there his life rose up before him as an avenging angel, and the image of his dead mother returned with a reproachful yet an appealing look in her eyes. He tried to banish the one and to turn his thoughts from the other, but failed, and at last in an agony of remorse, shouted the single word “Guilty!”
It seemed as if the cry had called Zeppa from the world of spirits—to which Rosco believed he had fled—for a few minutes afterwards the madman approached his mountain-home, with the blood still boiling in his veins. Apparently he had forgotten all about the pirate, for he was startled on beholding him.
“What! still there? I thought I had killed you.”
“I wish you had, Zeppa. It would have been more merciful than leaving me to die of hunger here.”
“Are you prepared to die now?”
“Yes, but for God’s sake give me something to eat first. After that I care not what you do to me.”
“Miserable man, death is sufficient for you. I have neither command nor desire to torture. You shall have food immediately.”
So saying, Zeppa re-entered the bush. In less than half-an-hour he returned with several cocoa-nuts and other fruits, of which Rosco partook with an avidity that told its own tale.
“Now,” said Zeppa, rising, when Rosco had finished, “have you had enough?”
“No,” said the pirate, quickly, “not half enough. Go, like a good fellow, and fetch me more.”
Zeppa rose at once and went away. While he was gone the fear of being murdered again took possession of Rosco. He felt that his last hour was approaching, and, in order to avoid his doom if possible, crawled away among the bushes and tried to hide himself. He was terribly weak, however, and had not got fifty yards away when he fell down utterly exhausted.
He heard Zeppa return to the cave, and listened with beating heart.
“Hallo! where are you?” cried the madman.
Then, receiving no answer, he burst into a long, loud fit of laughter, which seemed to freeze the very marrow in the pirate’s bones.
“Ha! ha!” he shouted, again and again, “I knew you were a dream, I felt sure of it—ha! ha! and now this proves it. And I’m glad you were a dream, for I did not want to kill you, Rosco, though I thought it my duty to do so. It was a dream—thank God, it was all a dream!”
Zeppa did not end again with wild laughter, but betook himself to earnest importunate prayer, during which Rosco crept, by slow degrees, farther and farther away, until he could no longer hear the sound of his enemy’s voice.
Now, it was while this latter scene had been enacting, that Orlando and the faithful negro set out on their search into the mountain.
At first they did not speak, and Ebony, not feeling sure how his young master relished his company, kept discreetly a pace or two in rear. After they had crossed the plain, however, and begun to scale the steep sides of the hills, his tendency towards conversation could not be restrained.
“Does you t’ink, Massa Orley, that hims be you fadder?”
“I think so, Ebony, indeed I feel almost sure of it.”
Thus encouraged, the negro ranged up alongside.
“An’ does you t’ink hims mad?”
“I hope not. I pray not; but I fear that he—”
“Hims got leettle out ob sorts,” said the sympathetic Ebony, suggesting a milder state of things.
As Orlando did not appear to derive much consolation from the suggestion, Ebony held his tongue for a few minutes.
Presently his attention was attracted to a sound in the underwood near them.
“Hist! Massa Orley. I hear somet’ing.”
“So do I, Ebony,” said the youth, pausing for a moment to listen; “it must be some sort of bird, for there can be no wild animals left by the natives in so small an island.”
As he spoke something like a low moan was heard. The negro’s mouth opened, and the whites of his great eyes seemed to dilate.
“If it am a bird, massa, hims got a mos’ awful voice. Mus’ have cotched a drefful cold!”
The groan was repeated as he spoke, and immediately after they observed a large, sluggish-looking animal, advancing through the underwood.
“What a pity we’s not got a gun!” whispered Ebony. “If we’s only had a spear or a pitchfork, it’s besser than nuffin.”
“Lucky that you have nothing of the sort, else you’d commit murder,” said Orlando, advancing. “Don’t you see—it is a man!”
The supposed animal started as the youth spoke, and rose on his knees with a terribly haggard and anxious look.
“Richard Rosco!” exclaimed Orley, who recognised the pirate at the first glance.
But Rosco did not reply. He, too, had recognised Orley, despite the change in his size and appearance, and believed him to be a visitant from the other world, an idea which was fostered by the further supposition that Ebony was the devil keeping him company.
Orlando soon relieved him, however. The aspect of the pirate, so haggard and worn out, as he crawled on his hands and knees, was so dreadful that a flood of pity rushed into his bosom.
“My poor fellow,” he said, going forward and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, “this is indeed a most unexpected, most amazing sight. How came you here?”
“Then you were not drowned?” gasped the pirate, instead of answering the question.
“No, thank God. I was not drowned,” said Orley, with a sad smile. “But again I ask, How came you here?”
“Never mind me,” said Rosco hurriedly, “but go to your father.”
“My father! Do you know, then, where he is?” cried Orlando, with sudden excitement.
“Yes. He is up there—not far off. I have just escaped from him. He is bent on taking my life. He saved me from the savages. He is mad—with fever—and stands terribly in need of help.”
Bewildered beyond expression by these contradictory statements, Orlando made no attempt to understand, but exclaimed—
“Can you guide us to him?”
“You see,” returned the pirate sadly, “I cannot even rise to my feet. The savages were burning me alive when your father came to my rescue. The flesh is dropping from the bones. I cannot help you.”
“Kin you git on my back?” asked Ebony. “You’s a good lift, but I’s awful strong.”
“I will try,” returned Rosco, “but you will have to protect me from Zeppa if he sees me, for he is bent on taking my life. He thinks that you were drowned—as, indeed, so did I—the time that you were thrown overboard without my knowledge—mind that, without my knowledge—and your father in his madness thinks he is commissioned by God to avenge your death. Perhaps, when he sees you alive, he may change his mind, but there is no depending on one who is delirious with fever. He will probably still be in the cave when we reach it.”
“We will protect you. Get up quickly, and show us the way to the cave.”
In a moment the stout negro had the pirate on his broad shoulders, and, under his guidance, mounted the slightly-marked path that led to Zeppa’s retreat.
No words were spoken by the way. Orlando was too full of anxious anticipation to speak. The negro was too heavily weighted to care about conversation just then, and Rosco suffered so severely from the rough motions of his black steed that he was fain to purse his lips tightly to prevent a cry of pain.
On reaching the neighbourhood of the cave the pirate whispered to Ebony to set him down.
“You will come in sight of the place the moment you turn round yonder cliff. It is better that I should remain here till the meeting is over. I hear no sound, but doubtless Zeppa is lying down by this time.”
The negro set his burden on the ground, and Rosco crept slowly into the bush to hide, while the others hurried forward in the direction pointed out to them.
Chapter Twelve
No sooner had Orlando and the negro passed round the cliff to which Rosco had directed them, than they beheld a sight which was well calculated to fill them with anxiety and alarm, for there stood Zeppa, panting and wrestling with one of the fiends that were in the habit of assailing him.
The fiend, on this occasion, was familiar enough to him—the stout branch of a tree which overhung his cave, but which his delirious brain had transformed into a living foe. No shout or cry issued from the poor man’s compressed lips. He engaged in the deadly struggle with that silent resolve of purpose which was natural to him. The disease under which he laboured had probably reached its climax, for he swayed to and fro, in his futile efforts to wrench off the limb, with a degree of energy that seemed more than human. His partially naked limbs showed the knotted muscles standing out rigidly; his teeth were clenched and exposed; his blood-shot eyes glared; the long, curling and matted hair of his head and beard was flying about in wild disorder; and his labouring chest heaved as he fiercely, silently, and hopelessly struggled.
Oh! it was a terrible picture to be presented thus suddenly to the gaze of a loving son.
“Stay where you are, Ebony. I must meet him alone,” whispered Orlando.
Then, hastening forward with outstretched arms, he exclaimed—
“Father!”
Instantly Zeppa let go his supposed enemy and turned round. The change in his aspect was as wonderful as it was sudden. The old, loving, gentle expression overspread his features, and the wild fire seemed to die out of his eyes as he held out both hands.
“Ah! once more, my son!” he said, in the tenderest of tones. “Come to me. This is kind of you, Orley, to return so soon again; I had not expected you for a long time. Sit down beside me, and lay your head upon my knee—so—I like to have you that way, for I see you better.”
“Oh, father—dear father!” said Orlando, but the words were choked in his throat, and tears welled from his eyes.
“Yes, Orley?” said Zeppa, with a startled look of joyful surprise, while he turned his head a little to one side, as if listening in expectancy; “speak again, dear boy; speak again. I have often seen you since you went to the spirit-land, but have never heard you speak till to-day. Speak once more, dear boy!”
But Orley could not speak. He could only hide his face in his father’s bosom and sob aloud.
“Nay, don’t cry, lad; you never did that before! What do you mean? That is unmanly. Not like what my courageous boy was wont to be. And you have grown so much since last I saw you. Why, you’ve even got a beard! Who ever heard of a bearded man sobbing like a child? And now I look at you closely I see that you have grown wonderfully tall. It is very strange—but all things seem strange since I came here. Only, in all the many visits you have paid me, I have never seen you changed till to-day. You have always come to me in the old boyish form. Very, very strange! But, Orley, my boy” (and here Zeppa’s voice became intensely earnest and pleading), “you won’t leave me again, will you? Surely they can well spare you from the spirit-world for a time—just a little while. It would fill my heart with such joy and gratitude. And I’m your father, Orley, surely I have a right to you—more right than the angels have—haven’t I? and then it would give such joy, if you came back, to your dear mother, whom I have not seen for so long—so very long!”
“I will never leave you, father, never!” cried Orlando, throwing his arms round Zeppa’s neck and embracing him passionately.
“Nay, then, you are going to leave me,” cried Zeppa, with sudden alarm, as he clasped Orlando to him with an iron grip. “You always embrace me when you are about to vanish out of my sight. But you shall not escape me this time. I have got you tighter than I ever had you before, and no fiend shall separate us now. No fiend!” he repeated in a shout, glaring at a spot in the bushes where Ebony, unable to restrain his feelings, had unwittingly come into sight.
Suddenly changing his purpose, Zeppa let go his son and sprang like a tiger on the supposed fiend. Ebony went down before him like a bulrush before the hurricane, but, unlike it, he did not rise again. The madman had pinned him to the earth and was compressing his throat with both hands. It required all the united strength of his son and the negro to loosen his grasp, and even that would not have sufficed had not the terrible flame which had burned so long died out. It seemed to have been suddenly extinguished by this last burst of fury, for Zeppa fell back as helpless as an infant in their hands. Indeed he lay so still with his eyes closed that Orlando trembled with fear lest he should be dying.
“Now, Ebony,” said he, taking the negro apart, when they had made the exhausted man as comfortable as possible on his rude couch in the cave; “you run down to the ship and fetch the doctor here without delay. I will be able to manage him easily when alone. Run as you never ran before. Don’t let any soul come here except the doctor and yourself. Tell the captain I have found him—through God’s mercy—but that he is very ill and must be carefully kept from excitement and that in the meantime nobody is to disturb us. The doctor will of course fetch physic; and tell him to bring his surgical instruments also, for, if I mistake not, poor Rosco needs his attention. Do you bring up as much in the way of provisions as you can carry, and one or two blankets. And, harkee, make no mention of the pirate to any one. Away!”
During the delivery of this message, the negro listened eagerly, and stood quite motionless, like a black statue, with the exception of his glittering eyes.
“Yes, massa,” he said at its conclusion, and almost literally vanished from the scene.
Orlando then turned to his father. The worn out man still lay perfectly quiet, with closed eyes, and countenance so pale that the dread of approaching death again seized on the son. The breathing was, however, slow and regular, and what appeared to be a slight degree of moisture lay on the brow. The fact that the sick man slept soon became apparent, and when Orlando had assured himself of this he arose, left the cave with careful tread, and glided, rather than walked, back to the place where the pirate had been left. There he still lay, apparently much exhausted.
“We have found him, thank God,” said Orlando, seating himself on a bank; “and I would fain hope that the worst is over, for he sleeps. But, poor fellow, you seem to be in a bad case. Can I do aught to relieve you?”
“Nothing,” replied Rosco, with a weary sigh.
“I have sent for a surgeon—”
“A surgeon!” repeated the pirate, with a startled look; “then there must be a man-of-war off the coast for South sea traders are not used to carry surgeons.”
“Ah! I forgot. You naturally don’t wish to see any one connected with a man-of-war. Yes, there is one here. I came in her. But you can see this surgeon without his knowing who or what you are. It will be sufficient for him to know that you are an unfortunate sailor who had fallen into the hands of the savages.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Rosco, grasping eagerly at the idea; “and that’s just what I am. Moreover, I ran away from my ship! But—but—do you not feel it your duty to give me up?”
“What I shall feel it my duty to do ultimately is not a matter for present consideration. Just now you require surgical assistance. But how did you come here? and what do you mean by saying that you ran away from your ship?”
Rosco in reply gave a brief but connected narrative of his career during the past three years, in which he made no attempt to exculpate himself, but, on the contrary, confessed his guilt and admitted his desert of death.
“Yet I shrink from death,” he said in conclusion. “Is it not strange that I, who have faced death so often with perfect indifference, should draw back from it now with something like fear?”
“A great writer,” replied Orlando, “whom my father used to read to me at home, says that ‘conscience makes cowards of us all.’ And a still greater authority says that ‘the wicked flee when no man pursueth.’ You are safe here, Rosco—at all events for the present. But you must not go near the cave again. Rest where you are and I will search for some place where you may remain concealed till you are well. I shall return quickly.”
Leaving the pirate where he lay, Orlando returned to his father, and, finding that he still slept, went off to search for a cave.
He soon found a small one in the cliffs, suitable for his purpose. Thither he carried the pirate, laid him tenderly on a couch of branches and leaves, put food and water within his reach, and left him with a feeling of comfort and of contentment at heart that he had not experienced for many years.
That night the surgeon of the “Furious” ascended to the mountain cave. His approach was made known to Orlando, as he watched at the sick man’s side, by the appearance of Ebony’s great eyes glittering at him over the bushes that encircled the cave’s mouth. No wonder that poor Zeppa had mistaken him for a demon! Holding up a finger of caution, Orlando glided towards him, seized his arm, and, after leading him to a safe distance, asked in a low voice—
“Well, have you brought the doctor?”
“Ho, yis, massa, an’ I bring Tomeo and Buttchee too.”
“Didn’t I tell you to let no one else come near us?” said Orlando in a tone of vexation.
“Dat’s true, massa, but I no kin stop dem. So soon as dey hear dat Antonio Zeppa am found, sick in de mountains, dey swore dey mus’ go see him. I say dat you say no! Dey say dey not care. I say me knock ’em bofe down. Dey say dey turn me hinside hout if I don’t ole my tongue. What could dis yar nigger do? Dey’s too much for me. So dey follered, and here dey am wid de doctor, waiting about two hun’rd yards down dere for leave to come. But, I say, massa, dey’s good sort o’ fellers after all—do whatever you tells ’em. Good for go messages, p’raps, an save dis yar nigger’s poor legs.”
Ebony made the latter suggestion with a grin so broad that in the darkness his face became almost luminous with teeth and gums.
“Well, I suppose we must make the most of the circumstances,” said Orlando. “Come, lead me to them.”
It was found that though the strong affection of the two chiefs for Zeppa had made them rebellious in the matter of visiting the spot, the same affection, and their regard for Orlando, rendered them submissive as lambs, and willing to do absolutely whatever they were told.
Orlando, therefore, had no difficulty in prevailing on them to delay their visit to his father till the following day. Meanwhile, he caused them to encamp in a narrow pass close at hand, and, the better to reconcile them to their lot, imposed upon them the duty of mounting guard each alternate couple of hours during the night.
“He will do well,” said the doctor, after examining the patient. “This sleep is life to him. I will give him something when he awakes, but the awaking must be left to nature. Whether he recovers his reason after what he has passed through remains to be seen. You say he has been wandering for some time here in a state of insanity? How came that about?”
“It is a long and sad story, doctor,” said Orlando, evading the question, “and I have not time to tell it now, for I want you to visit another patient.”
“Another patient?” repeated the surgeon, in surprise; “ah! one of the natives, I suppose?”
“No, a white man. He is a sailor who ran away from his ship, and was caught by the natives and tortured.”
“Come, then, let us go and see the poor fellow at once. Does he live far from here?”
“Close at hand,” answered Orlando, as he led the way; “and perhaps, doctor, it would be well not to question the poor man at present as to his being here and in such a plight. He seems very weak and ill.”
When the surgeon had examined Rosco’s feet he led Orlando aside.
“It is a bad case,” he said; “both legs must be amputated below the knee if the man’s life is to be saved.”
“Must it be done now?”
“Immediately. Can you assist me?”
“I have assisted at amateur operations before now,” said Orlando, “and at all events you can count on the firmness of my nerves and on blind obedience. But stay—I must speak to him first, alone.”
“Rosco,” said the youth, as he knelt by the pirate’s couch, “your sins have been severely punished, and your endurance sorely tried—”
“Not more than I deserve, Orlando.”
“But I grieve to tell you that your courage must be still further tried. The doctor says that both feet must be amputated.”
