Tristram's comrades, it is true, were in no doubtful plight.
The hand of death had impressed them beyond chance of mistake.
They were thrown over limb by limb.
Tristram's was the only body that remained entire, and to all
appearance he too was dead. Now, he had been chained by the left
leg, in which (as we have said) he was severely wounded. The keeper,
not knowing that the chain had been blown away, grasped this leg in
his hand, felt for the ring and tried to wrench it open.
Fortunately he tugged so lustily and inflicted so sharp a pang in the
wounded limb that Tristram opened his eyes and sobbed with the
anguish of it. The fellow let go his grasp.
Then, suddenly perceiving what their intention had been, the poor
youth screamed out at the top of his voice:
"Please do not throw me over. I'm not dead yet!"
Upon this they carried him to a small chamber in the hold and tossed
him down among a heap of groaning wounded, upon a cable made up into
a _rouleau_, perhaps the hardest bed on which a sick man can lie.
About him were stretched indiscriminately petty officers, sailors,
soldiers, and slaves. The air could reach this den only through a
scuttle about two feet square, and the heat and stench were therefore
something intolerable.
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