CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
HOW MEN FIGHT FOR LIFE.
Mark started up in terror as he saw his father's face, pale, haggard, and smeared with blood; but as soon as he encountered his son's eye he smiled pleasantly.
"Have I been asleep, father ?" "Capitally, my boy," said the captain kindly.

"A good four hours, I should say." "And you've been watching ?" "No--only resting and thinking, my boy.

I'm better now.

Go out and see how things are." Mark stepped softly into the saloon, which was now full of light from the stern windows, and a dull sense of horror and misery came over him as he noted the desolate aspect of the place, with the screwed-up doors, the barricade, the look of the men asleep, and above all the pallid aspect of Mr Morgan, who seemed to have grown old since the previous day, so seriously had his wound affected him.
This was all seen at a glance; and he was going toward the door when he stopped short, startled, for there stood the major with a double gun at his shoulder taking so straight an aim at him that Mark seemed to see nothing of the gun but the muzzle, looking like a pair of spectacles without glasses, and through which frames he was trying to peer.
Not a pleasant prospect for him if he could have looked, for it would have been right down the barrels at the wads of a couple of cartridges; but as he stared the piece was lowered and the major said in a low voice: "I could have brought you down like a bird.

Why, you looked just like a Malay.