Part 64 (1/2)

While these scenes are pa.s.sing upon the ocean, others of equally exciting character occur upon that desert isle, where, by ill-starred chance for themselves, the pirate crew of the _Condor_ made landing.

They are still there, all their efforts to get off having proved idle.

But how different now from that hour when they brought their boat upon its beach laden with the spoils of the plundered vessel! Changed not only in their feelings but looks--scarce recognisable as the same men.

Then in the full plenitude of swaggering strength, mental as bodily, with tongues given to loud talk; now subdued and silent, stalking about like spectres, with weak, tottering steps; some sitting listlessly upon stones, or lying astretch along the earth; not resting, but from sheer inability to stand erect!

Famine has set its seal upon their faces; hunger can be read in their hollow eyes, and pale sunken cheeks; while thirst shows upon their parched and shrivelled lips.

Not strange all this. For nine days they have tasted no food, save sh.e.l.l-fish and the rank flesh of sea-fowl--both in scant supply. And no drink, excepting some rain-water caught in the boat-sail during an occasional slight shower.

All the while have they kept watch with an earnestness such as their desperate circ.u.mstances evoked. A tarpauling they have rigged up by oar and boat-hook, set upon the more elevated summit of the two--the highest point on the isle--has failed to attract the eye of any one on the mainland; or if seen, the signal has been disregarded; while to seaward, no s.h.i.+p or other vessel has been observed--nought but the blank blue of ocean, recalling their crime--in its calm tranquillity mocking their remorse!

Repentant are they now; and if they could, willingly would they undo their wicked deed--joyfully restore the stolen gold--gladly surrender up their captives--be but too glad to bring back to life those they have deprived of it.

It cannot be. Their victims left aboard the barque must have long ago gone to the bottom of the sea. In its bed they are now sleeping their last sleep, released from all earthly cares; and they who have so ruthlessly consigned them to their eternal rest, now almost envy it.

In their hour of agony, as hunger gnaws at their entrails, and thirst scorches them like a consuming fire, they reck little of life--some even desiring death!

All are humbled now. Even the haughty Gomez no longer affects to be their leader, and the savage Padilla is tamed to silent inaction, if not tenderness. By a sort of tacit consent, Harry Blew has become the controlling spirit--perhaps from having evinced more humanity than the rest. Now that adversity is on them, their better natures are brought out, and the less hardened of them have resumed the gentleness of childhood's days.

The change has been of singular consequence to their captives. These are no longer restrained, but free to go and come as it pleases them.

No more need they fear insult or injury; no rudeness is offered them either by speech or gesture. On the contrary they are treated with studied respect, almost with deference. The choicest articles of food-- bad at best--are apportioned to them, as also the largest share of the water; fortunately, sufficient of both to keep up their strength. And they in turn have been administering angels--tender nurses to the men who have made all their misery!

Thus have they lived up till the night of the ninth day since their landing on the isle; then a heavy rainfall, filling the concavity of the boat's sail, enables them to replenish the beaker, with other vessels they had brought ash.o.r.e.

On the morning of the tenth, a striking change takes place in their behaviour. No longer athirst, the kindred appet.i.te becomes keener, imparting a wolf-like expression to their features. There is a ghoulish glance in their eyes, as they regard one another, fearful to contemplate--even to think of. For it is the gaze of cannibalism!

Yes, it has come to this, though no one has yet spoken of it; the thing is only in their thoughts.

But as time pa.s.ses, it a.s.sumes substantial shape, and threatens soon to be the subject not only of speech, but action.

One or two show it more than the rest--Padilla most of all. In his fierce eyes the unnatural craving is clearly recognisable--especially when his glances are given to the fair forms moving in their midst.

There can be no mistaking that look of hungry concupiscence--the cold calculating stare of one who would eat human flesh.

It is the mid-hour of the day, and there has been a long interregnum of silence; none having said much on any subject, though there is a tacit intelligence, that the thoughts of all are on the same.

Padilla, deeming the hour has arrived, breaks the ominous silence:

”_Amigos_!” he says--an old appellation, considering the proposal he is about to make--”since there's no food obtainable, it's clear we've got to die of starvation. Though, if we could only hold out a little longer, something might turn up to save us. For myself, I don't yet despair but that some coasting craft may come along; or they may see our signal from the sh.o.r.e. It's only a question of time, and our being able to keep alive. Now, how are we to do that?”

”Ay, how?” asks Velarde, as if secretly prompted to the question.

”Well,” answers Padilla, ”there's a way, and only one, that I can think of. There's no need for all of us to die--at least, not yet. Some _one_ should, so that the others may have a chance of being saved. Are you all agreed to it!”

The interrogatory does not require to be more explicitly put. It is quite comprehensible; and several signify a.s.sent, either by a nod, or in muttered exclamations. A few make no sign, one way or the other; being too feeble, and far gone, to care what may become of them.

”How do you propose, Padilla?”

It is again Velarde who questions.