It was night when Tristram opened his eyes again. A pale ray of
moonlight slanted across his face. His head was pillowed on
something soft and warm. He lay for awhile and stared at the
moonlight; and by degrees he made out that it was pouring through a
rent in the galley's side. Then he turned his head and lifted
himself a little to see what it was on which his head rested. It was
the dead body of one of the three overseers, who had been killed
almost by the first shot fired by the frigate.
He pulled himself up and crept towards the bench; then put a hand
down to his feet. The ring was there, but no chain. Next he felt
along the bench with a wish--quite stupid--to get back to his seat.
His comrades were still lying on their faces. He imagined for a
moment that their foolish fears still held them there and he laughed
feebly. He was weak, but felt no pain from any wound, nor suspected
that he was hurt.
Then he began to eye the fellows roguishly, taking a malicious
pleasure in the continuance of their terror. He tittered again and
suddenly found himself out of patience with them.
"Come, get up--get up! The danger's all over long ago."
He received no answer and put out his hand towards the nearest.
It was the Turk--a fellow who had been a janizary, and had the
reputation of not knowing what fear was.
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