In loud voices they shouted over the day's fighting, wrangled about details, or waxed affectionate and made friends with the men whom they had fought.

Prisoners and captors hiccoughed on one another's shoulders, and swore mighty oaths of respect and esteem.

They wept over the miseries of the past and over the miseries yet to come under the iron rule of Wolf Larsen.

And all cursed him and told terrible tales of his brutality.
It was a strange and frightful spectacle--the small, bunk-lined space, the floor and walls leaping and lurching, the dim light, the swaying shadows lengthening and fore-shortening monstrously, the thick air heavy with smoke and the smell of bodies and iodoform, and the inflamed faces of the men--half-men, I should call them.

I noted Oofty-Oofty, holding the end of a bandage and looking upon the scene, his velvety and luminous eyes glistening in the light like a deer's eyes, and yet I knew the barbaric devil that lurked in his breast and belied all the softness and tenderness, almost womanly, of his face and form.