, a few who were troubled with fears--perhaps some who
had consciences not yet utterly seared. At all events, two or three of
them moved uneasily as they sat huddled together, for there was little
room for so many in such a confined space, and now and then a bursting
sigh escaped. But such evidences of weakness, if such it may be called,
were few. For the most part silence reigned. In mercy the captain had
ordered a chink of the hatch to be left open, and through this the stars
shone down into the dark chamber.

Looking up at these, in statue-like silence, sat the pirate-chief. No
one had spoken to him, and he had spoken to none since his entry there.
Sleep did not visit _his_ eyes, nor rest his heart, yet he sat perfectly
still, hour after hour. Perchance he experienced the rest resulting
from an iron will that abides its approaching time for action.

The tending of the wounded, the cleansing of the ship, the feeding of
survivors, the shutting up and arranging for the night, had passed
away--even the groaning of sufferers had dwindled down to its lowest
ebb--long before Pungarin moved with the intent to carry out his
purpose.

The night-watch had been set and changed; the guard over the prisoners
had been relieved; the man in charge of them had gone his rounds and
examined their fetters; the careful captain had himself inspected
them,--all was perfectly quiet and deemed safe, when Pungarin at last
moved, and gave vent to one deep prolonged sigh that seemed to be the
opening of the escape-valve of his heart, and the out-rush of its
long-pent-up emotions.

Slowly, but persistently, he began to struggle, and in the darkness of
the place it seemed to those of his comrades who observed him as if he
were writhing like a snake. But little did his fellow-pirates heed.
Their hearts had long ago ceased to be impressible by horrid fancies.
They could not help but see what went on before their eyes--it did not
require an effort to help caring!

We have already said that some of the prisoners had been bound with
ropes for want of irons. Pungarin was among the number, and his almost
superhuman efforts were directed to freeing himself from his rope,
either by tearing his limbs out of it, or by snapping it asunder. In
both attempts he failed. Sailors are, of all men, least likely to tie a
knot badly, or to select a rope too weak for its purpose. The pirate at
length made this discovery, and sank down exhausted. But he