The occupant of the settee was a huge, muscular, repulsive young man, whose yellow hair lay uncombed on his pillow, while his pale, freckle-marked face was distorted with pain, rage, and the torture of a rebellious spirit, when sorely smitten by the hand of God.
Many of Brimstone's fierce shipmates had been hurried into eternity in the midst of the struggle on the deck of the East Indiaman.

Blair's coarse tormentor, however, had escaped with his life, but with one leg so wounded and bruised that it was promptly cut off, as the only way of preventing ultimate death.

Brimstone ground his teeth and swore fearful imprecations at each movement that reminded him of his loss.

It was in vain that Derry bade him be quiet, and rather thank God that time was left him for repentance.

In Brimstone's hardened heart there seemed no resting-place for good seed, no soil prepared for the heavenly plant.
His only relief was in forgetfulness of his misfortune, when he was wiled from thoughts of himself by one of Blair's stirring tales of adventure, or ballads of the olden time.