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.

A surgeon was at work among the sufferers.
Reaching Tristram at length, he stopped the bleeding of his wounds with a little spirits of wine.

He had no bandages; nor did he come again to see if his patient were dead or alive.
But, indeed, our hero was past caring for this, and when he regained consciousness after a third swoon it was to find himself in other hands.
For the pursuing English, aided by the wind (which had shifted a little farther to the northward), had swept down upon the galleys and taken them, with their prize, and were now towing them triumphantly into Sheerness.
_IX .-- At Sheerness._ At ten o'clock next morning, after a prodigious breakfast at Sheerness, Captain Barker and Captain Runacles (whose wounded arm was slung in a silk kerchief) strolled down to the waterside to have a look at the strange vessels they had so obstinately defied.
They explored with especial care the unfortunate _L'Heureuse_, visiting first the Commodore's cabin, upon the boards of which the blood of Roderick Salt was hardly dry.