their prisoner was the girl--and who else could it be?--she remained
alive, helplessly bound to prevent either struggle, or outcry, and
destined to a fate far worse than death.

This revelation struck me like a blow. I had anticipated the possible
capture of the young woman, but not the return of Sanchez. His living
overthrew all my plans. There was no hope in the narrow confines of
the ship for me to remain long out of his sight, once he became able
again to reach the deck. And he would instantly recognize me in any
guise. Every hope of rescue had vanished, every faith that I could be
of aid. My own life hung in the balance--nay, rather, my doom was
already sealed. There, seemingly was but one chance for escape
left--that was to drop silently overboard, amid the confusion of
getting under way, and make the desperate attempt to reach shore
unseen before the crew could lift anchor, and set sail. This
possibility came to me, yet I continued to cling there, dazed and
helpless, staring dully down, lacking both physical and mental energy
to put the wild scheme into execution. God, no! that would be the
craven act of a coward. Better far to stay, and kill, or even be
killed, than to be forever cursed by my own conscience. The fellow
might die; some fatal accident befall the _Namur_; why a hundred
things might occur before Sanchez was capable of resuming command, or
could attempt any serious injury to Dorothy.

The fellows sent down from the main chains to the boat brought the
injured Captain up first. This required the services of three men, his
body hanging limp between them, his upturned face showing ghastly in
the flaming of the torch thrust out over the rail. To every appearance
it was apparently a corpse they handled, except for their tenderness,
and a single groan to which the white lips gave utterance, when one of