The hands of Huldricksson were lashed fast to the spokes by thongs of thin, strong cord; they were swollen and black and the thongs had bitten into the sinewy wrists till they were hidden in the outraged flesh, cutting so deeply that blood fell, slow drop by drop, at his feet! We sprang toward him, reaching out hands to his fetters to loose them.

Even as we touched them, Huldricksson aimed a vicious kick at me and then another at Da Costa which sent the Portuguese tumbling into the scuppers.
"Let be!" croaked Huldricksson; his voice was thick and lifeless as though forced from a dead throat; his lips were cracked and dry and his parched tongue was black.

"Let be! Go! Let be!" The Portuguese had picked himself up, whimpering with rage and knife in hand, but as Huldricksson's voice reached him he stopped.
Amazement crept into his eyes and as he thrust the blade back into his belt they softened with pity.
"Something veree wrong wit' Olaf," he murmured to me.

"I think he crazee!" And then Olaf Huldricksson began to curse us.

He did not speak--he howled from that hideously dry mouth his imprecations.